Firstly, empty the pockets of doubt, as brilliance of sun hits the rooftop, so much of the old year lies scattered in the wind, one forgets that time possesses its own persona when it comes to changing mankind’s.
I sit down with a mug of coffee on the second day of January, feel the wind rush past my cheeks, as feeling gives way to achieving what’s buried otherwise beneath the mauve cardigan and skinny jeans. What is hope? How many hours are wasted while waiting for the right moment to appear and serve, I’d lost count somewhere during my thirtieth year in winter.
Dice those potatoes, add the green onions, there is nothing here to dictate how the year should be spent. I am of the opinion that charcoal trees need only a whisper to begin finicking, it’s an age-old norm that seeks to confuse those with heart. I believe in trusting one’s own timeline.
Dormant beneath snow
earth of yesterday now lies
footprints of my own.
Photo credits: Aerial Photography of buildings by Lucas Miguel, Unsplash.
Posted for Haibun Monday: Fireworks and a Dripping Tap @dVerse Poets Pub