On the first morning of the new year, when all that shall be lies sleeping behind the darkness of suns yet to rise, I wonder with held breath what new strange beasts shall wake with them, what headlines of discord and deceit, indignities and injustices Shall form the wallpaper of whispered angst Against which I brush my teeth, drive to the market, and scour the pans. But the sunlight, it falls through the shutters in bars of gold, and at its summons the earth softens, yielding up lush carpets of green on the hillside, a beauty so profligate it scalds my senses. And that is goodness and grace. My boy creeps up on quiet bare feet, crooked smile tucked in tight, blue eyes dancing to mine and skittering away, and without a word presses against my side for the first hug of his day. And that, too, is an overflowing better than I deserve. And I am reminded that the darkness of tomorrow's unbending also hides all the gifts yet unasked