What have l say! O thou dusty Lord. Thou that birthed me 'neath thy barren, golden sun, Thou that clothest me in freezing garments, not of frost but of yon dusty plague. Though my teeth be clattering and nose blocked, from extreme blow of love By thy showers of endless dry wind. Yet still, thy skies stand clear as judgment. O January, thou dusty general with a planner, Who dost not whisper, But audit. And this art yon Jane Speare's version. Harmattan in your lungs, resolutions in your teeth, delivering me in dust and deadline, Handing me a planner before a rattle — And I thanked you. Perfect timing birthing me when the year was making promises, Not hoping for change — scheduling change, With gifts of responsibility, Marking the list of months to follow, A leader who carries your own and others anew, Across a long stretch of practical days — Capricorns and Aquarians. January, stern midwife to my year, Standing between who I was and who I swear I'll be, You're not soft. You're start. And for the Capricorns you birth? You don't cuddle. You crown. A Capricorn, thy child of work and want. Command me, then! I am thy charge, thy goat. So let it be writ, so let it be done. Aye, My Highness January. ~And this art yon 17-year-old Perfect’s ode to thee. Alias — Jane Speare