The last day of the holiday.
Langour and dread, coffee and laundry, a defiantly glittery manicure, because I can't let it all go yet. My apartment is a scrubbed ghost of what it became over Christmas. And that reversal brings renewal. And that renewal defies the grey outdoors, the snow outside like nothing as bright and magical as the snow conjured inside on windowsills and trees these last weeks. And it's only without that deceptive revelry the renewal can begin. But the trick is to hold on to the joy, the unbridled hope, as the days revert to their routines.
This is by Margaret Avison, via.
New Year's Poem
The Christmas twigs crispen and needles rattle
Along the window-ledge.
I remember A solitary pearl
Shed from the necklace spilled at last week’s party
Lies in the suety, snow-luminous plainness
Of morning, on the window-ledge beside them.
And all the furniture that circled stately
And hospitable when these rooms were brimmed
With perfumes, furs, and black-and-silver
Crisscross of seasonal conversation, lapses
Into its previous largeness.
I remember I remember
Anne’s rose-sweet gravity, and the stiff grave
Where cold so little can contain;
I mark the queer delightful skull and crossbones
Starlings and sparrows left, taking the crust,
And the long loop of winter wind
Smoothing its arc from dark Arcturus down
To the bricked corner of the drifted courtyard,
And the still window-ledge.
Gentle and just pleasure
It is, being human, to have won from space
This unchill, habitable interior
Which mirrors quietly the light
Of the snow, and the new year.