The pages of tomorrow wait
for word of celebration,
a stroke that calls the clock to turn
this December, drifting down,
cracks the door on blossoming.
The sting cold rivers throat and lungs,
startled in the virgin light
of a bright earth blindly wrapped
in snow and ice, the longest night
peels off for the palest sun.
The year unhinges
and all possibility is there
holding its white morning breath
outside an opening door.