…And so ends the season of excess.
Now that all expectations have been smartly dashed
It’s a strange culture that begins each New Year with a hangover—a profound physical, emotional, spiritual malaise:
The throbbing head of too much drink,
the dry-mouthed realization of looming financial straits,
the sour stomach of stale relationships,
and the empty resolutions of the coming year.
Remedies are rumors,
as elusive and dissatisfying
as last December’s overwrought desires.
No tonic will ease the soul’s disquiet.
Father Time a fitting symbol:
Hunched and weary,
leaving the wreck of winter
to a new generation of naiveté
(an infant,
and a rising cycle of dreams).
Yet…
On the brown hillsides of cold scrub…
green hope
in hard soil grows
once more.
Now that all expectations have been smartly dashed
It’s a strange culture that begins each New Year with a hangover—a profound physical, emotional, spiritual malaise:
The throbbing head of too much drink,
the dry-mouthed realization of looming financial straits,
the sour stomach of stale relationships,
and the empty resolutions of the coming year.
Remedies are rumors,
as elusive and dissatisfying
as last December’s overwrought desires.
No tonic will ease the soul’s disquiet.
Father Time a fitting symbol:
Hunched and weary,
leaving the wreck of winter
to a new generation of naiveté
(an infant,
and a rising cycle of dreams).
Yet…
On the brown hillsides of cold scrub…
green hope
in hard soil grows
once more.
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