Covid in Our Christmas Stockings was not the name of a new holiday movie, but instead the elevator pitch plot of my actual life this week.
Exchanging yuletide pleasantries for “Hark! The Herald Angels Sneeze!” has left me weak, my head still spinning…
…thus this brief poem, for year’s beginning.
Dear Baby New Year,
you can’t read this yet
you’re just an infant but
I worked out
you must age
at least
a quarter-year a day,
which is the reason
though I’ve thought to write
I never did.
I knew that until March 15th
or so
you were a kid
so why send you
a boring note
about my mid-life health?
you don’t need that.
you’re young;
won’t be my age til… August 12th.
but maybe August 13th
you can drop me a quick line?
let me know how September looks?
and if October’s fine?
I understand
all we are
guaranteed
is to get older
we start out babes
and rocket
towards our prime
then seem to gain momentum
rolling reckless as a boulder
just like you are
kind of… bundled up in time.
what lies ahead?
your walking stick.
we can’t deny that fact, but
if you don’t mind,
I think we’ll just keep wearing your top hat.
amazing it still fits, I know.
It brings a sense of style
to innocence, experience,
to wisdom, bravery, guile…
It kind of goes with everything.
so when I get that chance
to have your cane
be fairly warned,
I’m using it to dance.
JN.1 / Jd: 0 [A Letter To Baby New Year]