412 and 413: The Seven Days of January: vi and vii

There are some scattered practices that sue

to make the mind more calm, and, ‘centered’, say.

Tho I find, without fail, this month can do

what all these other rites only portray.

A meditative hum can calm my mind,

but only on a stormy Saturday.

A prayer may sometimes, platitude unwind,

but that’s not really why I go to pray.

But always January does it well,

her air bethrummed by untouched dossier,

their pages dreams, potential, where they dwell,

that we intend to draw, draft, and essay.

Her court is judgmentless, her jury bare,

it’s only you there, and her earnest stare.

~~~

But now our pondering is at an end,

no more are we to wonder and reflect,

incoming holidays will surely send

us into spirals dread and derelict.

It’s not that bad. But loathe I am to leave

the lake that we’ve been treading for awhile.

Not long enough, but long enough to grieve,

the passing of this cold but peaceful mile.

Tho true it is a guise—no month owns peace,

there always were the conflicts out of doors—

still, under her illusion they could cease.

Her muted hours the ponderous heart restores.

Now out we go to weave up a new year,

we’ve toddled on too much on the frontier.