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The Seven Days of January: v:

I’ve never been much one to, merry, be

in this, the month of cold January.

Instead, my time is spent quite pensively,

crisp air, an untouched canvas, is to me.

But if you will partake in revelry,

the better ‘tis for you, or so I see;

for canvas is the better artistry

if it is to be painted happily.

So take your joy, and take your friends freely,

don’t meddle in mundane philosophy.

Take time to love your living recklessly,

the year’s before you: start it joyfully.

But I will take the lesser part, and be

bewitched by forethought and by memory.

~~~

The earth herself hath giv’n me rest enough,

I need not hours nor need reach out to “snooze”;

but bring me river, coast, mountain, or bluff,

and no amount of vigor will I lose.

I woke one morn, but stayed to sleep past dawn,

and lingered in the house ‘til afternoon;

not more but less dynamic was I drawn

that day, tho sleep and ease were that day’s boon.

But when I woke another day to win

the race between the Sun and me and morn,

and ran where twigs and first rays struck my skin,

‘twas then that I felt new, e’en freshly born.

‘Tis Nyx, then Hemera and Aether air

that wake and offer up restful repair.