First of January

 
Not a sound across the land
when I step off the shore
onto the frozen band
of the river clamped like ore.
 
A clean break. The light
is sharp and cold and new.
The houses dwindle from sight,
the cars are far and few.
 
and as I skate and veer
out to the small island,
saddled on my shoulders
 
riding the troughs and rollers
is a child, tiny and silent,
carried over from last year.
 

from Waves and Trees (Gallery, 2006), ? Justin Quinn 2006, used by permission of the author and the publisher.

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