January 1

January 1

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time ‎- John Donne

Two-faced, you hand me a manilla file
of all last year, daring me to discard
worn-out narratives, to frame bright scenes.

Your open door reveals the months ahead,
twelve tidy fields. You whistle up the weeks
to drive them through each field in single file.

Strait-laced dry-stone waller! I’ll graze my days
up on the moor, or tumble down a stream
uncalendared. I’ll lap life from the rain.