The clock strikes twelve on a shifting floor,I step through a tavern, or step through a door. The bar has been raised, or the bar has been left, of a spirit poured out, or a spirit bereft. For a year I have stood by a quieted still, defeating the ghost, or obeying its will. The proof of the bottle is long under lock, yet the proof of my path is the tick of the clock. Am I empty of poison, or filled with the space? Did I conquer the demon, or join in the chase? Tomorrow the canvas is washed of the stain, and the count starts at one, or at zero again
The morning arrives with a brand new design, where water is clear, but it tastes like a wine. The grounds that I walk on are fertile and deep, from promises made that I finally keep. Three hundred and sixty-five turns of the earth, each hour a labor, each morning a birth. The calendar bled as the old pages fell, to break up the chime of a sorrowful bell. For a year I have tended the roots of the vine, to alter the branches that once intertwined. The weight of the shadow is suddenly light, as dawn takes the place of a long, heavy night. I sat with the silence when winter was cold, and watched as the frost let go of its hold. The rivers that froze in the chest of the storm, are rushing with currents both steady and warm. The seasons have turned and the garden is grown, the seeds of the struggle are blessings I've sown. The storms didn't break me, they watered the soil, redeeming the days of the tears and the toil. Tomorrow I wake to a beautiful view, where everything old is entirely new. The horizon is open, the pathway is clear, I step through the gateway of my second year.