The wan light might be tired
but it tries to shine

In this kind of darkness,
this is fine

Good morning.
Lean into the good,
even if a hangover fug
has you in its grasp,
breathe deep.

We still have grey days
to argue with, some tears,
til greenery ensues
when lost, hidden and new truths will return.

So make the morning good,
with toast and jam
or salt, fat and shenanigans.

And for your soul,
despite the impotent bitterness
of prevailing winds,
prop open the door a little.

I’ll tread this crystal mud,
set a while to peer through veils
to make poor assumptions of what’s to come

As augury I’ve asked the birds
but shy of the same woodpecking rattle,
they stay schtum

I’ll indulge in haruspicy
in making dinner, sure
that no steak and kidney mouthful tells

Glass in hand, hepatoscopy
defines the coming year
where new is frozen

This makes no sense like a round square or a respectful mockingbird, or a song with no melody or a rose smelling ****.

Or an actionless verb or even better a dance with no steps.
It'll be 2017 in a few hours, but the stench of 2016 hasn't dissipated yet.

The celebrity massacre, gorilla killing, spirit and dream crushing year. It felt so depressing that at least once we were all brought to tears.

So sing Auld Lang Syne to your hearts content and cook Black eyed peas if you please
Just let me pass through midnight unscathed, that'll be enough for me