and next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.'
- T. S. Eliot, 'Little Gidding'
I wanted to think that there was a time
when it was neither one year nor the next -
shaving the seconds into finer slivers
until the passing of each one
could not be perceived.
That moment, suspended in nothing,
would be sacred to me;
a space of no space or memory
or aspiration or resolution:
just a moment.
But childish logic failed me,
for time is not a straight line
and it is always one year and the next.
