January 3

On the brittle tree, a trinket
holds the morning light
turning it slowly
this way and that.
I refuse to join in
with the wringing of hands.
I will not lay my rod
alongside another’s to compare.
I decline to beat the mare
trusting instead
she’ll carry me where
at length I’m meant to be.
Out there in the blue, a jet
curves its contrail 90 degrees.

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