We always begin by making a list
of unrealistic goals.
Not that they appear unrealistic at that point.
We make the list in ink--
pencil is too pessimistic--
and we look forward to crossing completed
with bold, straight lines.
That is spring.
We project success before the end
But fall arrives
and rolls along
and the list becomes a heckling spectator.
Jobs weren’t done in the priority order
we assigned them;
some are half-done, others
We vow this is the last time,
next year we won’t count chickens,
we’ll take a trip, let the roof cave in.