New Year

 The calendar turns on a silent hinge, 

A heavy door closing on all that has been. 

The frost on the glass is a silver fringe, 

Where the ghosts of December are fading thin.

The clock strikes twelve in a shiver of light,

The air holds its breath for a moment or two. 

We stand on the edge of a cavernous night, 

Tracing the shape of a year that is new.

It is not just the numbers, the ink on the page, 

But the sudden, clean scent of a world unbegun.

 A pause in the theater, a clearing of stage, 

Before the first climb of a brand-new sun.

The failures of winter are buried in white, 

The triumphs are seeds waiting deep in the clay. 

Whatever was heavy, whatever was tight, 

Loosens its grip at the dawning of day.

So we carry no maps for the miles ahead, 

Only the courage to step through the gate. 

With a word to be spoken and paths to be tread, 

On a canvas of hours that are empty and great.