Burning the Old Year

by NAOMI SHIHAB NYE

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.

Since New Year’s Day, in my journal I have been doing writing exercises to discover which patterns of thinking, feeling, and doing need to be consumed by fire until no traces remain. To do so in a constructive way compels me to examine the past year honestly and dispassionately (“no drama” says Kim) so I can learn, move forward, keep what is “stone”, and fill the now empty spaces with better things.

It’s a process. I’m three days in. I continue to be amazed. Writing is a powerful force that takes me deep within, and then, draws out, clarifies, and elevates my thoughts. It is both good and necessary. It is neither easy nor quick. And so I will — I must — continue the practice.