Maybe this is the year I finally learn to take the time to tie my shoelaces —what kind of shoes do grown-ups wear?-- and floss every night and use proper punctuation, even when I text my friends.
My crooked gaze falls on puddles of rainwater turned upside down and I break away from aging thoughts to a place where they let ivy grow on buildings and friends still come and go but not in a sad way and dogwood blossoms stop people in their tracks.
Clover and wildflower weeds contemplate the growth of passersby and wilting roses watch as I hurry to catch up. I think I have seven years to do something great. Don’t laugh, I think you think so, too.