I will not be shoved 
violently 
into the new year,
hastily ushered
through the threshold of time,
stepping over the gaudy foil 
of revelry,
scraping the stubborn grit 
of months passed
underfoot.

I am taking my time. 

Lingering
just a little longer than feels
comfortable,
heels digging deep 
into the cold, weathered stone.

I am cradling the fleeting moments,
watching them settle 
in my mind’s eye;
gleaning the bright, scattered remnants,
threading a harvest shawl
to rest 
upon my rounded shoulders.

Once my strength is garnered,
and stillness throngs 
thick on my spirit,
I will lean in gently, 
dear friends—
and inch
across the year.


By Laura Benn