What kind of a year leaves us like this?
No fond farewell, or gracious good-by,
Just windy rain turning to snow and
A cold that frostbites anything we left
Exposed – our hands, our ears, even
Our hearts, if we forgot to bring them in
With the lawn furniture and the fallen
Leaves and limbs, the weathered debris
The seasons leave for us to gather.
What kind of year goes off like this?
Doors blown shut, windows rattling.
This is a time of no return. There’s no
Returning to the things, to the people
The year took from us, the pleasure
Of their presence now taken from us
In this final storm.
What kind of year calls it quits like this?
Raging at its past and the future. What
Kind of year demands attention to its
Closing, like this? What kind of year?
What kind of year?