I hear the slow footfall of New Year
whispering sweet tidings.
“Place hope on a rising swell,
Keep out the ides of the dark.
I come on the back of every rolling cycle,
see through the layered tissues of pain and joy –
Let the clouded days leave no trace,
Verdurous moments refresh a memory
of the smell of spring and ever
out to undress a new haven.
The morrows always have a mystery,
Like the cusp of a coconut.
Stellar orbits feel no fatigue,
I have seen them too, often wondered,
If they don’t why would one whine
about the roll of the cycle?”
The footfall is close to the ear now
tip-toed by a joyous ringtone.