New Year’s Day

The rain this morning falls

on the last of the snow

and will wash it away. I can smell

the grass again, and the torn leaves

being eased down into the mud.

The few loves I’ve been allowed

to keep are still sleeping

on the West Coast. Here in Virginia

I walk across the fields with only

a few young cows for company.

Big-boned and shy,

they are like girls I remember

from junior high, who never

spoke, who kept their heads

lowered and their arms crossed against

their new breasts. Those girls

are nearly forty now. Like me,

they must sometimes stand

at a window late at night, looking out

on a silent backyard, at one

rusting lawn chair and the sheer walls

of other people’s houses.

They must lie down some afternoons

and cry hard for whoever used

to make them happiest,

and wonder how their lives

have carried them

this far without ever once

explaining anything. I don’t know

why I’m walking out here

with my coat darkening

and my boots sinking in, coming up

with a mild sucking sound

I like to hear. I don’t care

where those girls are now.

Whatever they’ve made of it

they can have. Today I want

to resolve nothing.

I only want to walk

a little longer in the cold

blessing of the rain,

and lift my face to it.