The Year

The year is almost over. The year is almost done. And I think of all I’ve failed at And I think of what I’ve won.   And if nothing is for certain, And if nothing has been gained, But I walk a little lighter And I feel a lesser pain;   And I visit less…


As I approach my golden year, My jewel in the crown, perhaps:   This emotions-partly-frozen year, This artificial, jointed year, This sedentary comforts year Shall fade into the past;   And I And I And I And I   Shall rule myself At last.   Copyright 2018 Andrea LeDew