January 1: New Year's Day, Joseph Brodsky, "1 January 1965"

New Year's Day.  My sister is cooking prime rib.  I'm supplying some New York cheesecake.  The day is bright and clear.  I can almost see tomorrow from my window.  Everything seems possible today.

I know that I've shared this poem before, but it drives the cobwebs out of the corners for me.  It fills me strangely with gratitude.

Saint Marty hopes everyone feels the same today.  Gratitude abounding.

1 January 1965

by:  Joseph Brodsky

The Wise Men will unlearn your name.

Above your head no star will flame.

One weary sound will be the same—

the hoarse roar of the gale.

The shadows fall from your tired eyes

as your lone bedside candle dies,

for here the calendar breeds nights

till stores of candles fail.

What prompts this melancholy key?

A long familiar melody.

It sounds again. So let it be.

Let it sound from this night.

Let it sound in my hour of  death—

as gratefulness of eyes and lips

for that which sometimes makes us lift

our gaze to the far sky.

You glare in silence at the wall.

Your stocking gapes: no gifts at all.

It's clear that you are now too old

to trust in good Saint Nick;

that it's too late for miracles.

—But suddenly, lifting your eyes

to heaven's light, you realize:

your life is a sheer gift.