Thursday Poem - January First

It seems a shame to throw out that old year,
that had so many birthdays in it,
parties and vacations, fixings
of the body and the house, all finished
and no longer to be worried,

and now to pin up these new wolves and dogs and moons
blank squares and unmarked days.
A sleeping new year wakes, lumbers out of darkness,
hungry to consume us
bite by bite at each appointed hour.

There should be maps to guide us through
the wilderness ahead, survival tips and even prayers.
But cloudy gates of heaven close us out
from that eternal view
and leave us with the ticks and nicks of time.

At least, I’ll make a money soup
and let the rich aroma of lentils, garlic, oil
fill our empty bellies with its comfort.
At least, I’ll write some letters to the far ends,
call a friend who’s been where I have been,
and laughs about it,

then settle in behind my usual wall
of rough and solid words.
I love most the days of nothing
nipping at my heels with obligations.
How many will there be?

Dolores Stewart Riccio

(with the poet's kind permission)