"Don't ask me, I'm new here..."

...a poem

Photo Cliff Scholz

Don’t ask me, 
I’m new here. 

And this crack  
in the driveway 
is new too, this spring,
or at least it’s 
much deeper and wider.
I sure don’t remember it.
Frost heaved the earth,
I suppose, and now 
here it is.
Invisible things moved.
Visible things happened.

Same with me, it seems.
Happens all the time.
But don’t ask me, 
I’m new here.

Over there I see 
oak leaves clustered 
by the house 
like last year’s heroes.
They look shiny and 
fresh as when 
they first let go and flew 
last November, 
but probably not 
as fresh as when, 
starting so tiny and tender, 
they held fast 
to summer branches, 
held fast, 
held fast and grew.

I love both kinds 
of strength:
the holding on,
the letting go.
But even so,
don’t ask me.
I’m new here.

So many kinds of new.
Like over here, 
see this pile 
of heavy, melting snow?
How vividly I recall 
it biting as it blew, 
and how shovelful
by shovelful 
this snow pile also grew, 
not long ago. 

What moved in me 
to move all this, 
when countless crystals
wending their descents 
from clouds 
in endless whirls 
came at last to rest
and so, transformed, 
somehow, into 
another job to do?

I wish I knew.
Today I watch 
it softly seep away 
quite effortless
in motion. 
Just last icy night,
these rivulets
weren’t here 
to see or speak of,
yet now they are.

So yes, just like 
this melting me 
piled up here 
in the driveway 
bathed in sun,
these little streams 
are new here, too.

Still and all, 
maybe 
you can ask 
them.