Variation On A Meme By Andrew Marvell

Light from the first city,
the tea garden,
like grass under clouds,
is predictable.
What happens is not.
How the New Year moves,
what it swings toward,
or away from,
is everybody’s guess.
With tides,
with fog,
with a movement of hands
and shouting down cans
on long strings,
I call you in words.
Each hearer hears
her own hearing,
but perhaps a bit more.
This year is drawing to its close,
and cold rains beckon.
Thus, let us find an umbrella,
walk long on the sand,
and see what transpires
under willing soles.