poem for a new year

the sun has gone into hiding here in ohio.

the rain walks across
the yard carrying snow
down to the flowers
in their cold beds.

the jagged trees, waiting along the road
for their rides, slowly think,
on the cusp of this new year,
that losing their leaves
in october
was a grave mistake.

they remember no springs.

here, inside, it is warm. the family is
gathered. the extravagant meal
has been eaten. the toast to the new year
given.

the past year is in bed,
past caring, accepting the long sleep
ahead. in hindsight, the year
seems both benign and foolish.

we imbued him with
powers. we wished him
to change our lives. his magic,
a desired con.

but the year ends
mostly as it started.
the spells we threw like dice
have won us nothing.

there is no magic after all.

on the cusp of this new year,
i feel a kinship with the trees
who have forgotten spring,
with the flowers in their deathly slumber.

but with the clocks poised to
leap the chasm,
I sense that one day soon
we will be surprised,
they and I;

so very,
very surprised.