Poemetry by T.A. Barnhart


despite the parties and fireworks
and all the other foofaroo,
new years day
is just another morning
in another year,
just another day
that has to be,
gets to be lived.
celebrating its arrival
as if magic were about
to be unleashed upon the world,
into my life,
makes the rest of the year
too normal
to be endured.
instead, i think:
another year
of the very few i get
is gone.
this new one
may be the last one.
but that, of course,
is a bit too grim.
the Buddha taught a middle path
between the desire for magic
and the dread of death.
that is something
i think i can handle
this morning.

┬ęTA Barnhart January 1, 2022