I am late in coming to resolve this year
to callous these cutless hands—
let me dig the deepest grave for these kicking fears,
I will bury dead despair alive.
I am late, but never mind,
there is yet time—
for there is now to resolve,
now to revolve
as the earth on its axis
awakens the capacity for new praxis.
See! There she stands, Lady Now.
She is that first smiling look that seized these weary eyes.
Her breath, sweet as a beaten child’s prayer;
her skin, thin as high mountain air
under which lies God’s womb
and just above—
closer than dreams in sleep—
the heavens and déjà vu.
I have but to reach.
Listen, heart, to the yearning cry in your throat
like a yearling clinging to his mother.
Reach, hands, for the star’s bosom.
These late resolutions are eternally just in time.
a poem by troy cady