New Year

by Gary Percesepe

It was a season of losses. Next to go was that evening's asparagus cluster. Before they could be saut├ęd, they launched and lodged in an Encyclopedia Britannia. Blinkered trail horses bolted the bridge to New Jersey, the Mayor in hot pursuit. Then, everything went still for a minute. Even the mice in the kitchen quit foraging, settling old debts. The New Year had arrived, swaddled like a baby. Grain will ripen, I thought. Oaks will blossom. Rivers still run from the mountains to the sea. The doorbell rang. It was my portly neighbor Rob. I kissed him and said wait here. I told Rob that it was true, what the poet said, that you can feel happy with one piece of your heart. I went to fetch those shelved asparagus, tearful in Volume N.