a new year arrives
and will it be any better
then the last one we silted up...

or will the carpet just be turned over
to be trodden on all over again
with muddy boots
while we try to figure out
how to change the scratched record
on the turnstile of our days, spinning

before the last store of power runs out
for this globe, and the spring is silent
as all the bees have been sprayed
so nothing is being pollinated

as no one cared in time
in a worn and wasted life
we inhabit daily like robots
instead of living thoughtfully
with the rhythms of the earth
keeping clean streams
as the winter rests
before we sleep
for good