The year will end in shards of shining glass—

the days of life now known, now longed, now lived;

the crystal balls once full and promising

now gone; the good and bad spilled out along the ground.

And even as the final, shining sphere is dropped

our hands are stretching, surging for the new.

For these are orbs with different hues

with color patterns: greens and blues;

Future models shiny with the wit

of unsaid words, the someday triumphs

just around the bend.

And so we stand on crunching glass,

look longingly with hopeful, hopeful eyes—

and strain our hands to grasp another ball.

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