A (slightly late) New Year poem

Another start.
A new day, as fresh as recently laundered linen,

greets us with open arms and questions.
Paths ahead await the fall of feet,

as, tentative, we approach and attempt.
Reflections done, we promise more.
This diet will work where that one did not.
This year will swell where others have swooned.
This time my words will not wilt and wither.
This time... this time... this time...

Another year.
That blooms and blossoms and bellows;

that crashes and carries and cries.
A thousand chances to change,

a thousand ways to wander.
The peach may be uneaten,

stalled by the comfort of normality;

or the risks may be ignored,

outweighed by the weight of the prize.
It will pass, somehow, as always.

RC 6-1-24