Year Books

 

And so there it is.

Another year.

In the Books.

Tied up with a neat bow.

Shoved on a shelf.

Among the Millions

of other years.

 

Another year.

Among so many.

The inside covers,

scribbled with our autographs,

reminding us to “Keep in Touch.”

and other pleasantries.

A yearbook 2022.

 

“See you next year,” is the unfunny refrain,

as we say good-bye to people we’ll

see sooner than later.

A tired old joke,

used for far too long with

similar unamusing results.

Tiresome.

 

Those yearbooks,

gathering dust,

on those million mile

shelves, don’t seem to

teach us anything as they

are rife with mistakes, of

which we never learn from.

 

The ready-made “How to Guides” on

how to behave,

what traps to avoid,

what history has to teach us,

all gathering cosmic dust

along impossible shelves,

in an impossible library.

 

All crammed into another

year, of another year, of

another year, mixed in with a little

another year.

All there.

Ready for the New Year.

The Birds in a Gray Sky

 

The birds flew across

a gray sky,

their dark silhouettes

catching my eye,

against the silvery clouds.

 

Always threatening to snow,

but it doesn’t,

it’s just damp and cold,

sunless days,

as the Ides of December approach.

 

Each night the temps fall,

frosty and chill,

stiff and ridged,

in the swirling,

howling winds.

 

It’s morning,

and I sit in my car,

at a traffic stop light,

as the birds

took flight.  

 

My hands are cold on

the steering wheel,

as the car’s heater slowly

comes to life,

I sigh.

 

The light changes to green,

I roll forward,

feeling some envy, for the birds,

rolling and zipping towards

the Southern sky, for warmer climes.