Pink dawn fingers the grey bark
on the maple trees
along the frost-heaved stone wall.
I see it through the kitchen window.
Next to the window hangs
a calendar already turned to January,
although we haven’t yet lived
the last day of the old year.
(So eager we are to be done with it.)
The calendar boasts a picture
of a hunting beagle
Our beagle is sleeping on the sofa
also a picture … of entitlement.
In the frame of the window
beyond the trees
but not yet touched by light,
I see the parked truck of our neighbor
who nearly died last winter
of heart disease.
Old wall, old sun
new page –
we have them every day.