A Few Words for January

Each year I forget
how perfect
January can be:
bone clean,
house unearthed
of tinsel and evergreen,
and the tree sprawled
like a drunk on the street.
I sweep up
remaining expectations
and long to clear it all away,
even the innocence
of sofa, table, chair.
Just as I imagine
the purity of empty
white rooms,
it begins to snow.