At the Year's End

"Every leaf-scar is a bud
expecting a future.
The earth speaks in parables.
The burning bush. The rainbow.
Promises. Promises."

From "The Year's Midnight" by Gillian Clarke

Promise.
My glass is still half empty in her company. I still eye her warily, doubt her reliability and wonder if she's everything she says she is. I wish she was more straight-forward, less ambiguous. I want to be able to see her whispered future with my own eyes and not have to walk blind into another year.

And yet this year she's turned me aside to many a burning bush and a rainbow. It ends much better than it began. She was right about that at least.

There's a rose still blooming in the garden in December, irises and primroses too. When did I stop believing in improbable things? At the Year's midnight I let go of what was and look forward to what will be. There is no wrong season for some things. I want to believe that's true.