Turning (Poetry)

Another page —
and all that space to write upon
like frozen tundra — spotless and unwalked
the snows sweep out the flaws
and smooth the anger
the roughness and the chiselling man-wrought

The sky wipes clean the diary —
aches with longing
the flame in a far window
                        leaps and dies
red candles of a Christmastide’s
                        lost meaning
the voice of love lies buried
                        deep inside

The year is spent —
                        its sad days unaccounted
and night comes on —
                        the turning point is nigh
but somewhere in the stars
                        a hand is moving
the pen is poised
                        the Earth lets go a sigh