New Year

Now down the clock’s face run

The hours and minutes one

After one and soon they gather

And rush to the end of this night

Not noticing the wild voices

Ringing in their fears 

Of all things passing in the years

That have gone into silent flight.

Now looking back we weave 

Thoughts of what might have been

In weeks and months past

Unreclaimed and out of sight.

Or, looking forward to what 

We can’t see and hoping the unseen

Is better than what has been

We sing and shout, or even fight

To celebrate the passing of what

We can’t see or touch or feel

And in the dark and cold

Wait for some new hope past midnight.

                                        Tom Zelinski