Last night, the world rang in the year 2021 together.
I don’t believe I’ve heard such noise of celebration
since the turn of the century, since the infamous Y2K,
when a different arbitrary marker of time’s passing
was cause for such wild, fearful abandon.
On our farm on the grid of rural gravel lanes,
we stood stock still until the motion-sensor light
flicked off, leaving us with the faint flashes of fireworks
and the chunky clouds and the rain pelting our faces.
The dog’s ears flicked, though he never flinched,
and we all took in the cool, clean wind.
The fireworks were explosions; the night, a warzone.
It came from every direction at 23:58,
popping and booming and rumbling and splattering,
and went on and on and on, each an inhuman shout:
2020, this is what I lost to you.
2020, I can never forget you.
2020, you changed everything.