A fresh page, a clean start,
The past’s colors mute.
The calm before the storm,
A sense of agitation
Lingers in the stomach not
Quite yet—
But it’s coming.
It’s coming.
The new year is just another day
So why the expectancy?
It’s become an icon, a symbol,
For white, for fresh,
For a chance to start again
And look forward
Rather than behind.
Pick up the brush, the pen, the ink—
Roll out the parchment, the laptop,
The rumpled napkins in the corners—
And let the vibrancy flow and stain
And leak into every crevice of the world.