Addonizio, "New Year's Day"

The rain this morning falls
on the last of the snow

 

and will wash it away. I can smell
the grass again, and the torn leaves

 

being eased down into the mud.
The few loves I’ve been allowed

 

to keep are still sleeping
on the West Coast. Here in Virginia

 

I walk across the fields with only
a few young cows for company.

 

Big-boned and shy,

they are like girls I remember

 

from junior high, who never 

spoke, who kept their heads

 

lowered and their arms crossed against 

their new breasts. Those girls

 

are nearly forty now. Like me, 

they must sometimes stand

 

at a window late at night, looking out 

on a silent backyard, at one

 

rusting lawn chair and the sheer walls
of other people’s houses.

 

They must lie down some afternoons
and cry hard for whoever used

 

to make them happiest,
and wonder how their lives

 

have carried them
this far without ever once

 

explaining anything. I don’t know
why I’m walking out here

 

with my coat darkening
and my boots sinking in, coming up

 

with a mild sucking sound
I like to hear. I don’t care

 

where those girls are now.
Whatever they’ve made of it

 

they can have. Today I want
to resolve nothing.

 

I only want to walk
a little longer in the cold

 

blessing of the rain,
and lift my face to it.

Kim Addonizio