CONFETTI
So like a puzzle, poorly jigsawed, with edges that never meet.
Shredded, sliced, and torn; and much too small to be folded or broken.
Wee bits of paper, wafting in the air, and falling to the street,
As the throng below shout the words which once a year are spoken.
In pastel tints are these minced papers, that float on gusts of air,
But now they pause in anticipation as midnight's hour comes near,
Then sail to earth like windsurfers, to signal this night without care.
Now is a time for choice and direction, as they hail in the New Year.
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