And so another year falls away, into the midden heap
of empty promises, failed resolutions, tender hopes
and expectations that never lived
to see the light of day.
The hours move faster in these final moments
of a fading year, a strange juxtaposition
of endless days, yet weeks and months that flash
for an instant before the eyes as they skid
toward the void.
Gone are the days when time stood still
while you closed your eyes, breathed the magic in the air
and dreamed of flying – or looked into the mirror
of your soul, strong and proud, sure of its true belonging.
It’s not the mirror that speaks of age;
always it’s the heart, when that dogged,
persevering bundle of pith and marrow can no longer
believe the promises, no longer greet each new day with
cheerful expectation or glimmer of silent laughter.
Old is weariness that weaves a subtle shroud
of despair into your very bones, awareness that
the spectre draws near. Old Charon himself, psychopomp
of the ages, has fixed his beady eye upon the world.
Who next? Who next to make that one-way trip?
In this dark night of the year, that spectre
haunts your days as he stands there silent, watching…
watching lest a slip of the will, the slightest posture of defeat,
set him about his work.
Cold and bitter is the aging year, sucked dry of life,
pain and regret clutching at heart and spirit, grit
and bone. It waits, defeated, coin in hand.
Payment for that journey.
Ah, but turn your gaze now outward, you who are also Janus,
two-faced symbol of endings. Of beginnings.
Look back if you will at the dying year, but then lean
one more time into the tender promise, the signs that herald
a glorious new year waiting, like the phoenix, to be born
from the ashes of the old. Let your spirits rise.
Gird your loins anew. Count the hours.
Exorcise those dark and shadowy cobwebs.
Open yet again your searching heart to this,
the Coming of the Light.