A Singular Year
It has been a singular year,
a year of discovery,
that so much of what you once knew
no longer applies,
a year of change,
a bit more perhaps than is seemly
in a man your age.
It has been a year of disruption,
of fresh love, of broken love, of
new wounds and new strength in a strange stew,
a magic brew that even yet has not declared itself.
It has been a year, an odd one,
stalled and rocket fast,
of deep roots holding fast in the midst of storms,
of learning new languages of love
and letting go;
a year of blindness and new sight,
a year with no closure, where dates and numbers
make no sense, where you are younger
even as you age;
a year where loss no longer laid you low,
but instead became a sniper,
firing it’s arrows when you least expect it,
wounding, always wounding,
but never quite able to kill.
Your skin, it appears,
has grown thicker as your heart has grown softer.
It has been a year that refused to conform,
refused to fit in patterns or categories,
refused to make sense, a year of forced faith
and tenderness that refuses to end neatly
with a calendar.
It has been a singular year.
About this poem
I turn 61 today. I am the kind of guy who likes to take “landmark days” and think, look back, look forward and cogitate. 61 is not a banner kind of year, but it’s been a unique year, and from it, this poem.