Ride

The new year is a horse neighing in the field,
ready to race toward the future. 

It wants me to slide into the saddle and leave 
my baggage behind. 

A gate swings open on hinges of light. 

When we step through, the press and weight 
of yesterday is still palpable in my arms— 

persimmons and figs reddening in summer, 
wind tearing every leaf off the trees in fall. 

Sometimes ice and snow but mostly sleet, 
driftwood, and packed sand on the shore.

On one side is the river, and on the other 
trains travel the rails carrying coal.

I don’t know what the horse wants or if it wants
the same things I do but it carves tracks in the ground.

There is no standing still.

Perhaps our breaths, braided together,
will carry us toward whatever comes next.