After the New Year

It was dark then,
and yet I remember
the smell of her hair,
the sound of the glass,
the dry explosion
of wine in my mouth.

Wind scours the salt plains.
January is not kind.
They say it will grow
colder. And still
the nights rain stars on my head.

I look for a new music,
and the sky drowns me with color.
In the distance,
the lowing of cattle,
shrieks from the marsh birds.

They say when the rains come,
the land will live again.