The snow hovers, a mist of champagne bubbles
swimming down to the bottom of a flute glass.
In the blue of almost evening, the troubled
sky gnarls its brow on the skirts of the day past.
This night brings a new year, but there is no wind
to howl and scratch at the door, no gold full moon
to light the way across drifts, to clear the mind.
No confetti, no honking horns, no balloons
no Auld Lang Syne. Let’s stay out here, in the yard
listen to soft sift of snow, watch it collect
on our shoes, melt on our lips, forget the canard
of the clock's twelve strikes, tense future perfect.
Peace tastes like this — pure, sweet, and cold;
it melts through our fingers, impossible to hold.