Huddled in the dark of January,

the new year presents itself

in discarded wrappings brightly

crumbled, and in frivolous fireworks

over the lake. For awhile,

 

everything was red and gold.

Now, the purity of new-fallen snow

becomes ashen, embracing

a stone-cold world. Matchstick

humans return to their dull existence,

grateful to be alive for another year

of maladies and pills that stalk

their makeshift lives.

 

Yet their gladness is not pretense.

Despite the petty cruelties

of witless autocrats, the despair

of neighbors disappeared into

airless buildings, we shoulder on,

linking arms to survive. And then

 

there’s the Christmas card list,

ever dwindling due to death

or dementia. Overcome with

the urge to pack it all away into

the crawl space of my life, I swear

I won’t bother with Christmas

next year.