We enter new seasons like there are hard lines

along the edges, like we can know when a new

season has begun, when the previous has ended.

All we know is we must move on, must progress.

We say December and mean winter, but the season 

splits the month neatly. We say dinner and mean forever,

say election and mean please, say equity and mean amen.

Ice along the edges of things, a scattering snow across

some surface. We say the future is ahead, beyond,

around a corner. We wait for it—we sit, the ice melts,

we hope for the best. The calendar doesn’t turn, the clock

does not chime, but here we are, in a whole new time.

Under the frozen edges, the scattering snow, there is good soil, 

waiting for us to dig into, to border across, to say and mean it.