It’s not the day on the

calendar that makes the

New Year new, it’s when

the old year dies that the new

year gets born. It’s when the

ache in your heart breaks

open, when new love makes

every cell in your body

align. It’s when your baby

is born, it’s when your

father and mother die. It’s

when the new Earth is

discovered and it’s the

ground you’re standing on.

The old year is all that is

broken, the ash left from all

those other fires you made;

the new year kindles from

your own spark, catches flame

and consumes all within

that is old, withered and dry.

The New Year breaks out

when the eye sees anew,

when the heart breathes open

locked rooms, when your

dead branches burst into

blossom, when the Call comes

with no doubt that it’s

calling to you.

Posted by kind permission of the poet.

Grief Trust