The year that was,
Bookended by
The cut of ice.
The crystalline
Days draw blood
As they pass through us.

Like last year,
Tragedies disseminate
Myth and history.
Just as dark-eyed prophesy
Apprehends those who hide,
The dry pain of loss
Surprises us, again.

Astounding, too,
Is the birth of
Flowers in the public
Garden (rosebuds, tulip
Bulbs, truth on their
Newborn faces as
Clear as that on
The newly dead).
We envy summer,
Which belongs
Only to itself.

But now is the happiest
Moment ever–
A memory soon hoarded
Among the cooling embers,
Sorted by the eventualities
That override it,
Smothered by the weight of
Planning to be without.
We promise
The fire next time,
Or do we?

A half-remembered
Cloud of hot breath
Fades against
A cold sky.
Leaves float on the wind
(Yellow, red).
Ice cuts the air and
The old becomes the new
Becomes the trend becomes
The trite becomes the

  ©A D Joyce

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Bio:

Adriene Joyce holds a BA in English Literature from Rutgers University. She an editor of a medical magazine, published poet and blogs under the name Sweepy Jean.

WebSite:
Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World 4.5