Standing on the other side of last year.
I’m yet to move, or even lightly tread
upon the surface of a new frontier;
I’m yet to commit to the days ahead.
I’m debating the size of the first stride,
contemplating its gravity, its weight
and direction. I am yet to decide
upon its meaning – and there’s the debate;
there’s the question, that has me standing still:
am I to leap forward without reserve,
throw caution to the wind, let milk spill,
and in its flow, let go this timid nerve?
. The first step is steeped with expectation,
. bound to itself – gripped with hesitation.

© Tim Grace, 1 January 2012

To the reader: Happy New Year – reassurance really – in the face of hesitant acceptance. We charge our glasses, count down the seconds and gaze skyward; fireworks outshine the brightest constellations – a new year is born! As decreed, it’s with resolve we all step forth, each with our own bundle of wishes and aspirations for the coming year. But old habits die hard… too soon this fresh stride becomes last year’s steady gait; and the stroll through life continues its wanderous way!

To the poet: Playing with words is the joy of poetry. Interlocking syntax and semantics. Wrestling word against word, phrase against phrase until a truesful fit is found; one surrenders its meaning the other its virtue; tension and abeyance ever present. The fight can be brutal (not brittle) always honest; best of all bloody and bruising. A good poem reflects the good fight; nothing comes easy so it’s best we enjoy the struggle.

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