January Poem by Paul Schneiter

Something about January
broods my blood to slush.
A new year's unknowns
hearkens hope to hush.

I's a shadowed foreboding
heritage of Januarys past.
Death calls my loved ones
with winter's harshest blast.

It seems the eye of irony
to hear '"Happy New Year! "
Yet one must toast the hope
a wish can fight a fear.

Yet I suspect- am quite sure
the Reaper will summon me
on an ice-enameled night
in the cold heart of January.