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