In the little northern city by the sea, the new year opens with a shimmer of new snow, pale skim on walkway and windshield. In the dark a distant highway mutters. Twining among the houses, wind fingers maple boughs, bumbles against chimneys, then untangles from human clutter and wheels over the black-tipped waves of the bay.

Now dawn unfolds. Suddenly, skeleton maples are inked against the faint gleam of future day. Blue presses against the windowpanes of the Alcott House, peering in at lamplight, at a fat kitten washing his face.

Last night's bustling little party was homey and sweet. The quiet room still basks in that leftover warmth.  I never have been the sort to make new year's resolutions.

Outside, a seagull wails. Inside, the kitten flits up the stairs. Bad times are coming. Also good times. Who knows how they will arrive?

Being a poet is awkward . . . Always trying to cram words into wordlessness. Constantly making the big mistake: pretending there's a moral to the story.

A kitten breathes into my ear. My hands fumble at sentences. Plain daylight has arrived, flat and sensible, no nonsense about it. Welcome to morning. Get to work.