New Year’s Day, 2025

My mother had a tradition for the bright, shiney new day to start each year. She would warn us in the days leading up the the new year that whatever we spent that first precious day doing would lay the foundation for our year, and we would be destined to spend a preponderance of our year doing that same thing.

That idea, along with the customs of eating greens and black-eyed peas and hog jowl and avoiding laundry like the plague it was believed to be, became a form of informal ceremony for me decades ago, and with her passing it became a way of remembering her. So I spend a portion of each year’s first day writing. This year I opened things up putting the finishing touches on this poem.

New Year’s Day, 2025

Here
In these sheltered hours
Of Anticipation
I shall gather
My tools—

For every adventure needs a map.

I shall
Gather the weathered charts of yesteryears,
Corners curled,
Edges smudged and stained with use.
Study and cherish the squares
Overrun with scribbles of busyness
And celebration—
Little balloons drawn in the corners
Of days
Now filled with yawning, heartbreaking quiet.
Trace them with damp, salty fingers
And feel the echoes of joy and love
And warm summer days,
Magical holiday tables,
Achievements marked and witnessed.

Then I will unfurl a crisp, new sheet of hope
Across a makeshift workspace
Where beloved pens lie—
Like multicolor wands casting spells
Across
An ever changing starry sky—
Inked and ready
To plot the path ahead
Toward the further unfolding
Of who I will find myself to be.

I shall
Settle in
And study the earlier drafts
For pitfalls and clear paths,
Bridges that need burning,
Bridges that need building,
Maybe a bridge here and there
That needs a little mending.

I shall be sure
To mark cherished waypoints
Not to be missed this next time ‘round.

Then I shall crack open the baggage
I carry
Filled with the wants and dreams
That keep me warm 
And the fear and guilt and shame
That chill me,
Lay them out like stars to guide me
As I plot my way.

I shall,
In these sheltered hours
Of anticipation,
Draft my course
Across the coming days
In favored hues
With fine nibs drawing
Delicate lines
From sweven to substance—
Inky filaments of manifestation,
Written prayers

Placed reverently
On a crisp new sheet of hope
To set adrift on the currents of the cosmos.. 

1-1-25

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Unless otherwise noted, all material--written, photographic, and artistic--is the original work of Estora Adams. All rights reserved.