The Turn of the Bad Year

I woke this morning, some dream in hand,
and the day fell into my open palms.
I had let something go, finally,
and all at once I knew what to do with my time.
Autumn became my favourite season –
mine, who trembles at a second’s breeze –
October, my favourite month.
The year had been hard-shelled,
something to grapple with,
but again I could gaze upon fine details:
A kind word at work
a warm room to live in
a song I’d once forgotten –
and ask nothing more from the moment.
I don’t know where the time goes,
but I’m glad that it goes.
We keep nothing, and nothing keeps us,
and that leaves nothing to worry about.