Pretend It’s January

Yeats and Me

January 28

The blunt instruments
of the day: sun | shadow,
blue | cloud,
lawn | tree,
all barren,
buffeted by arctic blast.

Indoors, heat hums on
and off, stillness.
I believe I hear
circling protons
in the wood floor,
the blanket
wrapped around me,
this overstuffed chair.

I mouth words
to silent music:
the downdraft
from descending swans,
the turn of a body
in dance,
the drum of hoofbeats
beneath Ben Bulben,
wishing Yeats well
as he sleeps
and myself
a quiet
happy birthday.


4 thoughts on “Pretend It’s January

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