Is there any other kind?
The kind I offer too often?
But I have such good suggestions.

Like: Nibble a little. You might like it,
I tell the cats when they turn up
their noses at food they practically

inhaled a few weeks earlier,
laser beaming a feline what else
you got? sneer in my direction.

Or when I look at the sycamore
still clinging to its brittle leaves
as if they’re its best friends.

Let go, I urge. You’ll feel better,
lighter, ready to grow new
little buddies in the new year.

But does it listen to me? Of course not.
The sycamore just stands like the stoic
it is, arms folded, back turned.

Look, I say to the unseasonal
camellias already blooming their
pink heads off a good month early,

save some for later, why don’cha?
You, too, narcissus, popping up tall
with your merry paperwhite flowers

just as December frost hits,
just as rain is on its way and will
do its best to drown you.

But you know what? They all
ignore my advice, thankfully,
and proceed according to

timelines embedded deep in
their cells, all of us living things
heeding our own itineraries,

doing exactly what we need to do
precisely when we’re called to do it.