Poets tell us what we knew about ourselves but didn't know we knew or rejected as too true. They also, graciously, allow for renewal.
At the start of spring I open a trench
in the ground. I put into it
the winter's accumulation of paper,
pages I do not want to read
again, useless words, fragments,
errors. And I put into it
the contents of the outhouse:
light of the sun, growth of the ground,
finished with one of their journeys.
To the sky, to the wind, then,
and to the faithful trees, I confess
my sins: that I have not been happy
enough, considering my good luck;
have listened to too much noise:
have been inattentive to wonders;
have lusted after praise.
And then upon the gathered refuse
of mind and body, I close the trench,
folding shut again the dark,
and deathless earth. Beneath that seal
the old escapes into the new.
[photo of the beautiful Bradford pear in my front yard, my sign of renewal every spring]