There’s so much pressure 
on the first day of the year,
perhaps why half of us get
drunk. So many hopes
that this will be better than 
the last.  If life were a tree 
each year would come 
swirling singly down, golden
or red or downright brown
when there hasn’t been
any rain. I’m looking for
rain this year, a nice Seattle
mist to cloud the air and
give everything a bright
shine. Clean air. A slower
pace while we sit at the
fire and stare, thinking of
words that describe how we
feel when we’re together,
and sharing so we’re really
not alone. Too much sun
and there’s no color at the
end. To be clear though, that
isn’t a metaphor for suffering. 
I’m not running toward pain
like some brutal ascetic 
fundamentalist nut. I just
want life with some color
in it, damn it, and not just
because I’m burned or 
bleeding. I want rain and 
some sun and ranunculus 
running wild. Which is why
we have champagne and 
Jesus, I suppose. Because 
all we’ve really got is a 
fragile tree.