The very first thought that forms
as I wake from my dreams is,
“It’s the new year.”
I pull back the drapes to an inky sky
still swathed in night, and no doubt
still recovering from the bawdy welcome
that rose as the new year was birthed.
Ten minutes later dawn creeps in,
and the air is filled with a dim pearly mist,
the world beneath it looking quite magical
and mysterious. Then ten minutes more
pass revealing through the mist
trees etched in frost, a sign, I surmise,
that the dream-seeds of the new year
truly had been scattered. And then
the light came, and the etching
of the branches wasn’t frost, but snow.
And it’s falling still, as I write these words.
Of course I snapped photos.
Of course I am smiling