In this airy smell of pine,
Time zones can only allow
the recapture of a few hours.
And in that space,
the last seconds still slip away.
I can always pretend and replay
the songs of an old year,
and hear with cheer or sadness
the cumbrous voice of choice
to overcome or succumb
to my world’s madness.
This world’s at an end
Of an olden year,
Readied to renew another-
In a wintered chimera
that tries to swallow
the bitter mistakes
of our shortcomings.
But true beginnings
Are not in Winter.
Still , there is the welcome
Of another year to breathe
And reflect on the blessings
Or the blemishes of the past.

Faultering and forgiving,
We await the season
of the Son’s Coming.
Meantime, we need
to taste the pine nut seeds
Gathered in the forest of life.

12/31/2012

Posted on 12/31/2012
Copyright © 2026 Clara Mae Gregory