I begin the page with pencil
as January freezes fragile
icicles outside my window, breakable
like the thin lead
that records where I’ll go
and easily allows me
to change my mind
so what was promised,
then taken back-erased-will not be
found. The future as yet
unknown, with no excuses, remains
fresh-smooth like the first snow
of the new year before the mailman’s
shoes ruin it. Soon enough
my calendar’s innocent untouched
months will be filled and emptied.
I used to use ink to chronicle
the hours where I’d be,
confident that I’d arrive.
But now, with something less
permanent, my commitment to the days
fades more easily.
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