At the New Yorker’s Our Year in Poems, we found a beauty* for the new year:

Every morning without thinking I open
my notebook and see if something
might have grown in me during the night.
Usually, no. But sometimes a tendril
tries a crack in my consciousness
and if I remain only indirectly aware of it
and tether my attention to the imminent
and perhaps ultimately unseeable
sun, sometimes it will grow.

Poet Christian Wiman nails the mysterious process of growth that we cannot control, and often aren’t aware of, but is part of every life, guaranteed. Therein lies possibility.

We are looking forward to tendrils cracking into consciousness this coming year…ours and yours.


Fern Berman ‘Tendrils of the New Small’

*“Eating Grapes Downward,” by Christian Wiman

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