Thou still unravish’d bride of plastic tab dividers,
Your paper smelling crisp as an autumn morn,
You coax all my amorphous resolutions—more exercise, better books, a cleaner house—into ordered form,
Every tomorrow “fresh, with no mistakes in it”
Yet.
Filled calendars are sweet, but those unfilled are sweeter,
Therefore, ye empty lines, stretch on,
Before thy pristine pages are corrupted—by coffee stains and cancelled plans and to-do lists never done—
Every fresh tomorrow spoiled by today.
And yet...
If truth is beauty and beauty is truth,
I shall find truth within thy margins,
Where penciled-in dreams of fresh starts and success meet new mercies every morning.
If the promise is grace and if grace is enough, there is hope for us, Sweet Spiral-Bound, yet.
Happy New Year!
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