It’s not where you or I or we
would think to start a year.
But what’s around but us to see?
The sun’s all out, and we’re all here.
Last night they said the rain might rust.
The sky got thick and hot.
This morning, there’s just pollen dust,
the faintest smell of pot.
If time were boxed and placed on shelves,
each ordered and arranged,
the start would show us least ourselves,
and at the ending, changed.
It’s not where you or I or we
would think to start a year.
But what’s around but us to see?
The sun’s all out, and we’re all here.
**
