Yet know this when contemplating | the New Year | ain’t nothing new | as is everything | in between | for should we be crafting newness in the middle of passing moments | remanufactured fabric | of our fractured past | forming this patchwork present | unfolding forward future | we are quilting the blackeyed pea | poems that ain’t quite finished | now pressed to publish | time won’t stall | we shall write on the run | and hope we get it right | before midnight calls our countdown | Ten | Nine | Eight…One

Though elated we are to be part of a timeline | continued | there is yet room for interruption | there is injustice | though slated we are to do | the same thing tomorrow | that was done just yesterday | before we procrastinated on ushering in | the newness of the year to come | let what is begun not be forced to wait | not be told to take its time while we imbibe spirit | and beckon forth a call to life | which wonders whom we are calling | because it has been here all along | waiting for us | to do something | that holds the promise of our appreciation

There are shreds and tatters | pieces of leftover denim | a bolt of kente | too short for a pair of pants | too long to waste on napkins | there is a sweater worn with time | showing the holes of history | in an elbow rubbed raw against the table | deep in thought | there is a kerchief inherited from the mother of your mother’s mother | monogrammed with initials in the old style | there are dashikis still holding the ravage of street protests and appearances before little children to service breakfast | there is history in a ballcap that clung to the head of a young man | thrust into college | to find his own way in this world | smell the blood of what has been rich in the birth of what is becoming | sew these pieces old and dying | into the quilted life of your New Year.

And then there was Royal Black.