New Years Poem by Corinne LaMoreHarber

How tragically cliche
to conceive in a
matter of a day
a crisp,
white canvas
Looms ahead, falls
Little by little
Like snowflakes from
The sky.
Dividing the whole
into segments.
It's really only the hours
Of the days in the years,
it's the burden
of measurement
We place on time,
The names
We give to air,
And the claims
We stake to waters.
Our vain attempt
to understand the
substance of what is
without
shape or form.