The eve of New Year has arrived
The fog rolls in covering the lamppost
The dismal air filled with a chill of a pending storm.
Maybe this is it, maybe the fog will usher the new year.
Maybe the white snow trailing behind it will bed the past.
The squirrels will scamper into the nested trees
The only sound when we venture out will be our footsteps,
The screams of the last murder of crows left behind with hope.
The hope to find the last field just turned from farmer’s plow.
Crunching the frozen ground laid by winter’s arrival,
We are brought into the silence of ourselves
Maybe then, we will think to pray.