First of the Year

Cadence burns the midnight coal,

returns the winter to its Stonewall sleep.

I can wring my voice like a lady from a bath.

The rain started on the way home

and it’s been warm the last few days,

thunderstorms and dandelions in December

and snow in October.

The noble owl jocks his beak in my direction,

wastes me on the floor and I’m not judging.

I’m laying on it too across the room from you,

right next in bed to you, the blinds removed

so the morning sun can see in.

This year begins two hours ago.

I let it go and walk out the door,

down the steps and around the corner

Atticus seeps stones of testament,

sacred cost of living made George Bailey affordable.

The door is closing, marker drawn in the kitchen floor.

The glass jar poured the wincing shine,

jam house ground the kettle groove,

the muskrat stove pipe,

concrete wicker cabinet.

Sweep the chimney to shore

with Montana pine branches—

the hidden highways of riverboat men

and their blue belly tick beds.

I’m shaking a stick at a hornet’s nest and hoping to get money.

The prods of the cattle drive

and the cowboy hat tips howdy ma’am to an outsider.

The garden unpainted,

the last sliver gassed triumph down the Nantahala.