Your pastor clears his throat behind the wood,
To trade you prophecies for silver coin.
He’ll promise that the coming year is good,
A holy harvest that the stars will join.
He’ll say the year is yours to fence and keep,
As if the seasons care for what you claim,
Or that the seeds of luck are sowed so deep
They’ll grow for anyone who speaks a name.
He’ll warn you of the way the year begins,
That if you start it weary, or in pain,
You’re destined for a winter of your sins,
A long and bitter walk through freezing rain.
But I have lived enough of life to know
A blackout at the start is just a night.
The dirt is indifferent to the things we sow;
It’s up to us to find the morning light.
Don’t mind the bells that clamor in the town,
Nor all the talk of what the year will bring.
A man must pull his own bright vision down
And do the work that makes his spirit sing.
Listen to the wood that builds the frame,
And drop the rot that seeks to make you slow;
A life is not a prayer or ancient name,
But just the steady way you choose to go.
The things that harm you have no place to stay,
So shut the gate and let the latch fall tight.
It’s better far to walk a lonely way
Than lose your footing in another’s light.
Go find the task that fits your heavy hand,
And tend the field that calls your heart to be;
There is no luck within this frozen land,
Save what you strike from flint and mastery.
Be happy in the marrow of your bone,
And make the memories worth the time they take.
The path you walk is yours and yours alone,
With every choice a promise that you make.
You are the master of the coming day,
The only one who holds the final key;
So turn the page and walk the winter way,
As certain as the tide upon the sea.
Happy New Year.
okelododdychitchats 