Miss First January
Miss First January canoed from the clouds
And anchored right beside Mr. Midnight
Red flower on the right, a book on the left
Traveling bag strapped on her back
Balancing a steaming pot on the head
A pen in front pocket of long white dress
With a rapture of piercing beckoning smile
She aired fleeting breath “this year, this year”
Could the fate of the year be in the book?
Could it be in the steaming pot on balance?
Is the fate with the red flower or the book?
No jubilation action can paste the answers
The fireworks, ululations, chip-chapping
The chickens’ tears and twisting of waists
Are nothing but prayers of hope of the blind
As the truth for the year may be in the bag
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