has started, but my days still belong to the slow and lazy winters.
The calendar has turned, but not the weather. And so I say….
Wait.
The Calendar says
The year is hatching
But my days
Are of depth and slowness
Thoughts rooted
in marshy slumber.
Bitter, biting winds
And abstract sunrises.
How then, am I to wish you
A Happy New Year?
Wait… till my winds change
Wait… till my sun rays crinkle
Wait… for the new sap to run
The gait of blood – deep in my veins – will pick up
And together, we will celebrate.
The Tahr Speaks 