yes, my name

the cold wind blows
as these old legs
head up the hill
and in the moaning
of the wind
I thought I heard
my name
as if from a great distance
a hilltop maybe
perhaps over water
so distinct it sounded
in a voice
I could not recognize
but my name
yes, my name
calling out
to me

unfinished business

it can be called
unfinished business
though business
is not the word
I would prefer
the letters unanswered
the phone calls ignored
those messages unopened
on apps neglected
’tis the season
these take on
an urgency
they lack eleven months
a year
the past the present
converging once more
and I must consider
what to leave behind
what to take forward
into the new year
just outside
my door