Relenting, the rain left a midnight chill and a cloudless night from my windowsill where, telling a story both simple and vast the droplets and moon made stars on the glass.
Slowly rising back I make the choice to scrape for might and gather this impov'rished heart to find the will to write. The year took all our breath away, took measures from our time. It stopped our voices, held our throats and bruised our sense of rhyme. While many sanguine shouts are praised to spur us through this year, we crave for more than vapid prompts, for something true and clear. And we can hold to greater hope than January's slate: a day that though we know not when, will surely come with CHRIST and then the hope that's certain, brought to sight will be all ours, with no more night and not a minute late. And so we rise to face the work for we should be remiss if we were not to forward hope from final day to this. Now strengthen we our eyes and hearts that through the darkest days we yet will love and work and write and give our Saviour praise.