So, the poor year ends/
events are stacked like old burnt wood
on a pathway where memory is past recovery.

The small green valley is a multitude
of lovely thoughts drifting through oak and pine.

A world rages and fallen people conflict
in the endless latitude of strife. No more the
sound of little girls in the shoeless yard.

No more do angels shuttle through a poisonous atmosphere
We go in/we go out of the world that punishes with doubt.

Where then the good men and women to save it?
The old year is a spiral to the old pathway away from the
         new horizon.