Bring a carrot or an apple
to the animal of the new year

that has come out of the gate,
that paws impatient at the pebbled

topsoil— Because it is ready
to canter into the field, offer it

a handful of blinding snow,
white as a portent for no sorrow,

cold as the slate which waits
to be turned into a track

where we’ll walk forward
and back, into infinity.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.