Pulled it from plastic crisp and new

Pulled it from plastic, crisp and new,

a blank promise, starkly true.

Hung it up, by the kitchen light,

a fresh page, an unwritten night.

January. February. March.

Each square a stark, unbending arch

of white. No circles, no faint ink,

no plans to hold, no time to think

of where I'm going, what I'll do.

Just this vast, empty, silent view.

It should feel good, this open space,

a kind of freedom, or a grace.

But it's a challenge, isn't it?

A wide-mouthed judgment, every bit

of blankness screams. What are you for?

This much nothing, right next to the door.

It hums, that silence, a low, deep drone.

A year ahead, and all alone

with possibility, or dread.

I trace a finger, then my head

feels heavy. All this space to fill.

It just sits there. So very still.