New Year's Day

Every month has a different experience.

January’s door pushed open,

By the relentless hands of time, 

It’s ancient midnight given a voice,

In the cold dank air.

A distant crackling drum, 

Fire from a thousand suns’ fountain,

Spilling copper and silver moonlight,

Across the dark sands.

To a wintering sea where,

Late morning’s driftwood thoughts 

Burnt away by icy saltwater,

Are lost in the waves.

Hung from winter’s trees,

The red and gold of paper lanterns,

Lifted by forgiveness in a city’s squares

Fragile as freedom.

Reviews

[Ann Outlaw]

I really enjoyed this piece. I can think of many different renditions of the vision your words bring to life here. Thanks for sharing.

[Stefande]

Thanks Ann, much appreciated :)