Another year sweeps in
brushing away cobwebs and footprints,
the tracks of yesterdays erased.
here at the cusp,
the stop between the in breath and the out,
a pause declaring possibility, bleeding
hopeful promises well heard
and carelessly spoken.
A rush of merriness cloaks dawn's gifts
of bleak winter light
and the customary hangover as
clocks stand witness:
another day done.
is everything, they say
which leaves one wondering
who is they anyway
and does it really all come down to a good watch?
I will never let the last half of my tea grow cold.
I will read everything that I should already have read
and absorb it thoroughly, until it changes me
and words fly off my tongue with absolute wit and charm
and my poems become unbearably wise and so beautiful that people sigh
and begin again.
I will remember punctuation and pay it respect
when absolutely necessary but
I will refuse to become trite or even conventional and
I will write, yes, at the very least,
I will write.
Promise a day of light, not strung and sparked
but sincere and reliable,
standing on a well marked horizon,
a holiday without the bitter wind
without persecuted poultry,
a pause that is invitation only without
the politics of who gets what and who said what and
so many sales and returns and impatient drivers
promise me that warm sand
your tender hand pressed in mine
this simple joy
promise me a next year.