Happy New Year. Happy January. I wrote this poem several years ago about the first month of the year:

January, why do I hold you in contempt at your birth?
Why do I shudder at the thought of you?
You. With your silent shroud so serene,
tiny stars in the sunlit air, your breath so pure, so quiet.

Your black dressing gown conceals radiant skin.
We gather against your dreariness.
And find fellowship.

You whisper in your harsh infancy, not a babble.
And as you grow, will we not rejoice you have taken root?
Will we not hail you in your youth?

There will be time for salutation, then for brilliant, hasty farewells.
Child, I do not tremble.
I do not look past you to meadows and butterflies.
You have no nectar.
Tell me your secrets.