The year begins in a cold dark’s stumble
and plows through a hen’s heart.
Cookies crumble in the afterward of Christmas
no doubt bewailing the running moon.
Our eyes seep into the dawn’s low spectra
over the storm singing through the aspens
and 2011 draws our fingers through uncombed tresses
waiting for cats and dogs to chirp at the sun.
The ridge revolves around the clefted rock in watered dawn
in ice like slivers lighted into golden sighs
insisting on acknowledgments of forwards calling
advances to January’s loves’ loved mornings.
© France Menk