Unlocked

on finding a sense of self in the New Year

The way is shut — photo, my own

There needed to be a scapegoat.
I blamed Winter.

Forcing coldness in ’til bones rattled
and shivers of reflections broke through, startling
me like unwanted visitors who refuse to knock.

Peering at the icy pond with two mallards
atop, my hands clutch the bridge,
claiming false steadiness.

We still know what truth looks like,
even when our vision blinds us.
Hoping for a different sight
in our gallery of memory that forgets
when the forgiving eye of dusk shines,
all looks the same.

As the time-worn door approaches —
its closing, imminent, I feel the creaking
of unreadiness, as a restless itch
about to get its fingers slammed.
As though I’ve only just woken,
and I’m about to take my first breath.

Instead, my head thuds
too soft against the whitewashed door,
refusing to accept the fading colors.