January comes with whispered hope, 
A fresh start, they say, a clean slate. 
But I’ve learned that baggage has wheels— 
It rolls right along, not caring for dates. 

The trees are bare, their arms outstretched, 
Yet they hold no answers in the cold. 
The horizon stays hidden, the sunrise fades, 
And all I see is the sunset, turning gold. 

It’s supposed to be a beginning, a promise, 
Yet I brace for what might go wrong. 
The tragedies of January linger deep, 
Echoing like a broken song.

My feet can’t afford to stand still— 
I want to run free, but ice waits below. 
Each step is cautious, each breath slow, 
As I watch for the other shoe to fall. 

I want to believe in January’s light, 
But the dark shadows always return. 
Still, something in me reaches for spring— 
A promise that someday, I’ll relearn.

So I wait for the thaw, the bloom, the break, 
For bare branches to turn green again. 
I’m not California dreaming, but still, 
I long for January to be something more than pain.

This year, maybe, I’ll run faster, breathe deeper, 
And let the horizon come into view. 
For now, I keep walking through January, 
Hoping for more than just sunset hues.