Doth Janus weep to stare over Wonderland skies
As the first sun of the first day burns his eyes?
What waits ahead in tomorrow’s glass disguise
What composition will find its sensual reprise?
The day, the week, the month, the new year
The slate is blank like a steam-frosted mirror
Awaiting thy finger’s touch to draw it near
To release the weight of last year’s atmosphere.
Turn back only to see the dragons you fought
Then look to the path that all time hath brought
Let howl the winds and storms in fierce’d thought
Tabula
rasa will at end reveal only what’s sought.