New Year is still a departure, A reckoning of all accounts. Cold, snow, winter's icy glaze, And the soul—in blue snowdrifts…
Frozen glass—like eyes— Of ice-flake silhouettes… New Year's bustle—merely A distant plane in the picture.
But in the foreground—I sit alone, The spruce's green glimmers softly… New Year's tinsel Burns the heart like fire.
And frozen, sphinx-like by the window, I remember last year… I—lived, I—lived and was, In verses I was—truly real!
