The old year clings to its fragile stalk,
In its husk hang dreams and memories,
minutes and hours dried to a crisp.
The dawn of the new year shines pale,
impotent in its infancy,
tiny arms flung to the heavens.
Uncertain, each regards the other; one
with suspicion and the weight of wisdom,
the other with wonder, innocent of pain or pleasure.
The old bows in silence,
falls to the rights of the year to come.
As it falls,
it scatters seeds
and the sunlight
notes where they land.