Another year

There are many things not of my choosing:
the thick ice, sunlit on this lake’s surface,
for instance, and the ducks, hilarious
as they slither-skate about on it.

I like to think such things are what I would
have chosen, had evolution’s contest
paused a moment to note my mind’s request.
But what mind, faced with so much, would know

what to accept, what to reject? So now,
starting a year new only by convention,
I’ve no wish to make a resolution.
I’m here, by a frozen pool, shaking

with laughter. Isn’t this enough?

Janet Loverseed