on the first of January is the kind of thing you'll do all year. Don't weep, said my father. Don't let the chopping board or broom be the first things you turn to, said my mother. And you shouldn't write again of rain, unless it washes your face clean of those tears your father was talking about. Don't rub the same damp sticks together hoping to make a fire. Think of all that could make a beautiful blaze without destroying its messengers— a flock of lanterns drifting into the night sky: some bearing a prayer, the rest just floating free.