January
January, you are the god of uncertainties imagined as all gods are but, oh, your altars are firm the fireplace when I can manage a modest coffee shop table, for one, near the back and away from door gusts at the stove where I pretend to make soup and dole out my hibernation in spoonfuls your short days slide like tired glaciers go on and keep your winter promises as indecipherable as tea leaves staining the bottom of my one favorite cup with no plans yet foretold for August or even June oh, January, your mercies hang men cold
Well, here we are, the longest month by far. There’s a January snowstorm brewing as I type. Three to five inches tonight? Four to eight inches tomorrow? More or less. See what I mean about uncertainties?
I’m no good at resolutions. I find myself wondering what 2024 will bring us. My Holiday season was superb, but now I’m in a winter funk of writer’s block and doubtful about the year ahead. But I know things will thaw. January, as long and uncertain as you are, even you can’t last forever.
This poem doesn't sound like writer's block to me. It's fabulous. I'm printing it out and putting it on my fridge (coldest place in the house) so I can look at it until Spring.
If this is writer’s block you’ve nothing
to worry about.