that time of the year, when you avoid sitting on
the edge of a chair because you fear you might just fall off a
cliff. every prayer, is us begging God to keep our
lives. times like this, the poems we write are
closing chapters of a yearbook, but the year doesn’t
end the same for everyone. somewhere, the
colour of december is ice white. here, it is dry,
dusty brown. but there’s one thing in common, the
cold; the anxiety that one might just freeze,
melting to cross over. everyone wants to keep
these moments warm, but not warm enough to
make blizzard a blazing fire. this period, we hope
to burn our regrets to ashes, to shed every ember
from december — to light a new fire. every
december poem wishes to find a home in the
early days of january, to wait for the poet to cross
over and say, ‘so, we meet again’. i round up this
poem like a snowball, throwing it into the coming
year, and i promise to meet it again.
