A year older? The number’s gone up, true
But really, it’s only a day older
So I won’t worry too much or feel blue
There are no sudden cracks needing paper
It’s more like the earth’s crust moving under
The well-tilled soil, the well-built houses, slow
Vesuvius bides its time, as does Etna
Till it splits, till the inside starts to flow
And dissipate; waiting for tomorrow
Or decades after. Laughter may accrue
And burst out. So may pain. Is this the year
For explosions, or will the land lie low?
Statistically, it’s far more likely to
Stay quiet. The odd rumble of thunder
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