Abide

Listen. It's only the second day of the year
but a page has already turned. Whose hand

is going to write the record of what you
vowed to fulfill? Once, you walked into

mornings sharp with mountain cold, ears
tuned for the sound of your ancestors' 

voices. Their words bronze dust motes 
spinning from cracked rafters, their touch 

strokes a sweet film on the surface of rice 
in cooking pots. This milk is light 

enough for babies' tongues. Evenings are rooms 
filled with the heaviness of clouds— they gather 

what spills from your eyes, into your hands, and 
every secret pocket in your clothes. Now they want 

to collect more of your thinning hair, plant 
the ache of a seed which knows there are fewer 

and fewer seasons ahead. Even so, they promise:
your heart will still know all manner of overflow.