The scent of orange oil on fingertips,
the complex progression of its taste
when breathed in, is like the moments
a year lays down — when I look back,
I see the way my thoughts
were all of a piece,
though they seemed different as they unrolled

I feel I traveled both farther and less far
in my progress through the year
than I could register
at the time

Now wind beats rain against the house,
staccato counterpoint
to the radio’s music
And the darkness at end of year
sits in puddles in the street
while we step through each unmeasured day
toward an undefined tomorrow.

©Wendy Mulhern
December 26. 2016