On this New Year’s Eve, here’s a “worry poem” I wrote back in 2008.
I’m worried about other things this year: my divided country at the top of the list. But here’s this one anyway:
Finally, I’m worried
I’m worried about Petunias.
The ten year old seeds stewing in my
windowbox peat seed starter
are not starting.
If they do, I worry if they’ll grow.
I worry if they will survive
the transfer to outside.
I worry if the rabbits will eat them.
I’m also worried about Nuala,
my idiosyncratic friend,
she of the pontifications
against the Republicans,
who, in church,
picks at her ear with
her little finger,
and then studies the gleanings
intently, head down,
eyes above her glasses.
I’m worried she will lose her job
for incorrigible quirkiness.
I’m even more worried about Emily,
my bashful student,
she of the singular smiles
when listening to a private conversation
which seems to be taking place
within her mind,
between those sandy braids.
She of the zipped up hoodie,
like a lilac holding back its bloom
due to unseasonably cold weather.
I’m worried she will lose her will to live
when she’s home for the summer.
Finally I’m worried about the receipts
the weight I’ve gained,
the dreams I forget.