I don’t feel 
like buying a calendar
this year — demarcation
of the future feels like
a farce —

the days will surely
heat up and fall
into a progression
of same upon horrible same —

If there is to be hope 
in the coming year
I don’t want to pin it on
a date — instead I shall plant
a garden

and mark time by shoot
leading to seedling 
leading to bud and bloom and 
fruit or thick-enough root —

and if there is meal enough for me
at the end

I shall count it
as my small hope fulfilled
and if I can feed another

I will say I have exceeded my hope

even as the rest burns

for it is already burning
and what we mean 
when we say hope
is singed and buried in ash
so deep
we would not know it
if it emerged and came to us

and how will we cross
the date from the calendar
if we cannot know 
the day has come 

or even if
it has already come and gone

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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