It’s January first again, and moist
from rain last night and mist that kisses hills.
Ten hours since we sat and sipped and voiced
a quiet happy new one – sleepy thrills
that made a fitting end to that old year,
when silence let me recognize together
conditions that in noise will not appear –
so now I’ve tossed away a magic feather.

A number’s arbitrary, till defined:
As much as midnight doesn’t make a wall,
as much as noon is nil, today’s a kind
of measure, relative or not at all.
For every moment is a part of me
in undeciphered continuity.