January: A Poem

Reflecting on
Olden Januarys,
We sort memories
Attempting to make sense
Of it all.

Once an empty jar,
Collections of life
Brim, the lid gives.

Using horoscopes
Like flashing arrows,
Coaxing us in a direction –
We still always
End up here.

A type of old
A kind of new,
Fresh like summer shorts worn first.

Reflecting on
Olden Januarys,
We sort memories
Attempting to make sense
Of it all and
We still always
End up here.




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