Write for a Reader

I thought a New Year’s poem would be appropriate for today.  I was going to write one, but when I found this one, I decided that I couldn’t explain it any better.  Our family suffered loss last year, and know that this year will be better, one because we have each other.  I hope that this new year brings you the clean slate that you need to achieve whatever it is you desire!  Happy New Year!!

Life I Am the New Year

Life I am the new year.
I am an unspoiled page in your book of time.
I am your next chance at the art of living.
I am your opportunity to practice what you have learned about life during the last twelve months.
All that you sought and didn’t find is hidden in me,
waiting for you to search it out with more determination.
All the good that you tried for and didn’t achieve
is mine to grant when you have fewer conflicting desires.
All that you dreamed but didn’t dare to do, all that you hoped but did not will,
all the faith that you claimed but did not have –
these slumber lightly, waiting to be awakened
by the touch of a strong purpose.
I am your opportunity
to renew your allegiance to Him who said, “behold, I make all things new.”
I am the new year.
– Author Unknown

You can find the rest of the Poetry Friday Round-Up over at A Year of Reading

I know it’s not a very upbeat topic, especially for a Friday, a day that everyone loves because the weekend is here, so I apologize up front.  The reason for the poem is my husband.  His father passed away at the end of June, and he is having such a hard time dealing with the grief.  We talk, he cries, he gets angry, and he thinks about it a lot.  He and his dad were very close, talking on the phone everyday and visiting face to face at least once a week.  I don’t know how to help him, so I have been searching for advice, reading, poems, etc. that may help or at least give me some insight.  I have not lost a parent, so I can’t empathize, I can only love him and hope time heals his wound.  Here is my poem, by Emily Dickinson.

HOPE

Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune—without the words,
and never stops at all.

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
and on the strangest sea;
yet, never, in extremity,
it asked a crumb of me.

I know there is hope for my husband; hope that he will heal, hope that he will feel better, hope that he will be able to go to the gravesite like he wants to, and hope that he will be able to talk about his daddy without breaking down.  Hope will come one day.  Thank you for letting me share my thoughts.

Check out the round-up at Big A, little a