Little One,
A year is too long
a span of time
to celebrate or mourn
a definite recollection
of all that has been.
A year is too long
a measure of memories
to savour
the delights & dismay
that came to be.
But a day,
a day is just right
to live,
like it’s never been lived before.
A morning of
infinite potential.
An afternoon of
rosy respite.
An evening of
starry dreams.
And a night
that gently turns over
into a new morning
of infinite potential.
A day is tiny enough,
To forget the disappointment
of the little seedling
that wilted in a cup.
A day is tiny enough,
To remember in vivid detail
the smell of winter air
and how we sang at breakfast.
Don’t mind the grown-ups
as they flounder and flail,
to abridge the year—past & new
into a definite resolution
of sorts & thoughtful gravitas.
For you know,
that a year is just
a motley crew
of many little days.
And tomorrow’s always
new.
—Mamma
