The First Morning of the New Year

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 and undeserved,

the litany of small graces that will strengthen

me to face the rest.