the first of january

Today the flowers stir in their cracked summer soil, and the clouds loiter, and the small birds harvest my front lawn. As I look out the window, I can see a monarch butterfly swoop through its long wild hour. I can see bees spiralling between the exhalations of daisies, the moments of their workday, the fragrant sunlit units of time they might count. I watch trees grow langorously and weeds too fast.

Don't tell me the number on some paper calendar. Today is a thousand different nows.

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