January 2, 2024

another beginning

Like when we walked the golf course in reverse and arrived at the first tee 
as the light was deepening, then came home to put the next load in the dryer, 
wash the last of the lunch dishes. How we ended the year at the movies, 
returning to an old favorite, mouthing the lines just before they appeared, 
and then the next morning stripped down to surrender to the frigid ocean, 
squealing like teenagers, then racing to shore and dry towels. I wonder if
we imagined we’d sprung ourselves briefly free of everything that makes us
human—our piles and messes, our too-quick judgements, the armor we climb in
to ward off pain—or if we were, instead, recommitting to every human thing 
we are—bodies laboring through the waves, our cheeks pinking from the cold.