The year-end

Our change will happen not at the midnight
Of cakes and candles,loud claps and crackers
But in doorways, each time we pass them
Like ghosts, room to room, under flowers
Delicately painted on their frames on yellow.

The doorway is not inside nor  there in space
But just hanging on time, as we hop and skip 
Holding our hems from paint sticking to them.
The year-end is a doorway that will disappear
in the dusty lane and in the dust we can't recall
What ghosts we were in the room  left behind.

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