For January


And this is life, even as tomorrow crawls in with bright winks

or grim wings across an uncertain sky. Yes, this is the life

for which fore-runners spoke, a day for which mothers’ backs

broke with sweat, and strained in odd old colds of irksome strife…

It is now that beats the heart, with two eyes across a dawning day,

and a flesh hung in space, with rasping sound of black restless keys.

Here it is where hope resides, not afar in the boxed, fuddled past

of rain on concrete cracks. It is not in the exile of many journeys.



This plinth of time must serve as a totem rank to lighten pathways

When the moon falls behind the yellow hills, with a dry Western snore.

This step is new, but like aeons of dreams and returning memories

Is old in the breadth of its pace, much more than just a random chore.

I could ponder hope in blunt alien lands. Still, I will not look behind

But inwards. In its charged spot are the loose ends of moving thoughts,

with each breath a treasury of lore, new paths bearing known marks:

I shall live in a ball of charms which dreams and hopes have wrought.