I am starting to see a pattern, a routine,
a glimpse into what this year may be like:
It’s smelling like fresh croissants from the bakery every morning-
the lid cracked in the back seat as I drive under oak canopies
with the smell of flaky beautiful butter wafting around.
It’s going to taste like fresh brewed coffee
(because everyone is a connoisseur)
steaming between my hands, filling the
white porcelain cup with swirling goodness.
This year feels like fresh cut wood, and the
possibilities of cork stoppers in every shape and size
in tan and honey and mottled browns.
This year will smell like sawdust on the chairs
on the floor, on my pants and shoes
it will become ideas and sketches drawn
on oak cherry maple pine tables
grown and fashioned in another life.
This year will fly like a yellow bike
zipping through traffic
taking the long way to see that sight of
downtown lit by streetlights and sunlight,
and I think, my, what a beautiful
city to live and love in.