The pages flip with cooperation of
Index finger and thumb.
A purr of flickering whiteness ---
Respectful, quiet, numb.
It’s way too soon now to divine what
Kind of year it will be:
The handwriting isn’t yet on the wall
Where anyone can see.
A prayer descends like a shadow
Eager to be bestowing
Strength to deal with whatever
Spitballs fate is throwing.
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