Sonnet for New Year’s Eve

When morning comes you’ll vacillate between
a sense of renaissance and one of fear—
one face of Janus has been scoured clean,
but one recalls abandoned tasks last year:
the dreams fast growing yellow at the edge,
at last succumbing to an attic purge,
the soulmate undiscovered in the dredge
of unimpressive men. Defy the urge
to sugar-coat the months of gloom, resist
revising ruts. Dry spells should motivate
a single lass to supplement her list
of talents, interests, wiles to cultivate
in future weeks. So seek to dwell on this,
not on the absence of a midnight kiss.

January 1, 2006