All through the night
howling winds
tore at the house,
scoured every surface,
violent manifestation
of the simultaneous
dying throes as one year slipped away
and birthing agonies
of another struggling to arrive.
But this morning
in this moment
not a single breath
disturbs the stillness
as the world stands, a little wobbly,
fresh washed in clean, soft pastels,
in perfect silence;
tenderly cradling the potential
of new beginnings.
But new-borns
are fragile things,
to be nurtured
gently,
with love,
and gratitude
for the opportunity,
the privilege,
that we can.