There is only one day.
The first day.
To be alive on the first
markedly balmy day of the new
year is to feel
a beckoning like instinct
a call to the woods or the seashore.
Invisible hand extends – one finger
curled, motioning.
Come, bid farewell to winter’s
fading presence, and like a mid-wife
accompany the birthing
of the season of re-birth.
spongy pungency of an awakened land
birdcalls that morph from casual
chatter to notice-me arias
winds that for the first time
since we sang Auld Lang Syne
hold the promise of true
warmth, and light that begins
its devotion to plentitude.
Come, free yourself from the shined
baubles and rusted
metal of the cage
of your life.
There is only one day.
The first day.
(c) 2016 Jennifer Comeau