New Year’s Day
and I will start afresh
as caterpillars are molting.
I will establish order in my sock
and underwear drawers
and the drawer of
scrambled kitchen utensils.
And it would not be the New Year
if I didn’t clean the refrigerator,
pitch the stuff we’ve no idea
how or when it got there.
And all the while, caterpillars are molting
as I disinfect my mouse and handles
and switches throughout the house and
thereby dodge the flu. I shall go to the gym
and will take better care of my aging brain.
And while I labor to hold back time,
worms with no to-do list begin
their reinvention—molting, spinning
the magic crucible, dissolving
the crawler, soon to try new wings.
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