January

January

Look at you, all photogenic,

waltzing in with bells on,

draped in your fancy firs,

with your fancy words

and promises of something new,

throwing confetti around like resolutions

that get lost in the scuttle

as the dust settles on the items that need to be returned

cluttering up the kitchen.

You put up snowmen on doorsteps, standing by,

poised for insurrections.

And you shut us in,

locked in our homes,

afraid to venture out

for fear of infection,

for fear that ice is closing in.

You incite a biting wind

that rips through,

stirring up worries

instead of the hope

you were supposed to carry with you

when we turned the page.

Yet we’re still holding on,

still resolved that you’re not all just pomp and show,

that you’ll bring us what you promised.

But you’re running fashionably late

.