New Year

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New Year

New Year

Half the world is hurting,
turning its face to shadow.
Moldering moments,
kindle to flame,
are undefined images,
lost to a cold,
northwesterly wind,
licking at the edges
where the numbness fades.

Firs stand conspicuous 
among their naked cousins,
all tendenous needles
and cadaverous cones.

The sky is leaden.
The streets are all 
unchartered lanes.

An unknown bird calls out
this new day; this new year.

Everything is redeemable.




©AndrewJamesMurray