Pat Jones

New Year’s Eve

by Kris Bigalk

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.

Kris Bigalk’s poetry has recently appeared in The Barefoot Muse and The Minnetonka Review, and is forthcoming in The Iron Horse Literary Review and The New York Quarterly. She directs the creative writing program at Normandale Community College in Bloomington, Minnesota.