Reaching for the whiteout
Suddenly I hesitate
What is it I want to obliterate?
All signs of process
Or even progress?
If I start, where would I stop?
Where could I?
Perhaps my fingers sense the danger
They tell their own story
The steady accumulation
Of markings and scars
And slow transformation
Here I am, never fully formed, always on the path to becoming something else
Maybe greater, maybe lesser
Certainly older, maybe wiser

Thanks for bearing witness to the year that has been