A cold clear day in which I’m preparing to welcome guests for a New Year’s feast of chicken tagine, roasted vegetables, beet and orange salad, and Liz’s Christmas pudding, steamed in beer. The guests are all bringing contributions (oysters from a cold beach have been promised) too so we will not be hungry. There are sparklers and Cava for midnight. The table is ready for the 7 of us and in a few minutes I’m going for the last swim of 2017. Not in the lake, though I’m sure some people participate in that ritual. I’ll do my slow kilometer in the local pool, thinking of the year, its highs and lows.
A friend sent a poem this morning, W.S. Merwin’s “To the New Year”. Its final stanza speaks to me so clearly of the old year and the new year.
so this is the sound of youhere and now whether or notanyone hears it this iswhere we have come with our ageour knowledge such as it isand our hopes such as they areinvisible before usuntouched and still possible