The sorrows of loss and
of times past collide with the
shock of the new.
We measure the year
review what is trailing
behind through thick mist
of sentiment that drags
us back to the
days we’ve squandered. Comforting folds
of remembrance cloak us in soft mist of
memory. Like the myth of Mother, Past offers her
warmth in contrast to snowy
landscape of truth, all memories a train
stretching back in time, behind
us, behind her
and you catch yourself smiling
with unjustified nostalgia through
round droplets of tears
while your soul remains shivering
in yearning for the past and as
it tries to hang on, she
thrusts you towards the future, into the now that sings…
A Golden Shovel poem based on three lines from Arthur Rimbaud’s The Orphans’ New Year’s Gifts (trans. Wyatt Mason):
And the New Year, trailing mist,
Drags the folds of her snowy train behind her,
Smiling through tears, shivering as she sings…
