Miss First January

Miss First January canoed from the clouds And anchored right beside Mr. Midnight Red flower on the right, a book on the left Traveling bag strapped on her back Balancing a steaming pot on the head A pen in front pocket of long white dress With a rapture of piercing beckoning smile She aired fleeting breath “this year, this year” Could the fate of the year be in the book? Could it be in the steaming pot on balance? Is the fate with the red flower or the book? No jubilation action can paste the answers The fireworks, ululations, chip-chapping The chickens’ tears and twisting of waists Are nothing but prayers of hope of the blind As the truth for the year may be in the bag