Listening
To "Auld Lang Syne,"
To resolutions replayed
From all the years before--
Smiling,
Knowing
That years,
Like hours and days
Are borrowed bits
Of someone else's time--
Of fate, of God
Of simple chance
Or just because--
But even knowing
That time is not my own
And never was--
I allow myself
One wry toast
And say,
"This year,"
Just as if the year
Were really new
or Time
Were really mine.