At the hem of the Smokies,
on the last Sunday of the year,
something quiet took place—
as though the first Sunday of Christmas
had already been folded
into the cloth of what has been.

Far off, two circles of hawks
turn slowly in a gray sky,
riding the wind, crossing unseen borders—
pure thresholds of becoming—
asking, again and again,
what it means to pass
from one state of being to another.

In the backyard,
sweet-gum seeds still hang by the hundreds.
What do they teach us—
about parting and belonging,
difference and kinship?
They are thorns, yes, and needles,
yet even these, in your hands,
can be shaped into meaning.

Lavender still blooms,
holding fast against the cold,
flowering out of season—
as if waiting for the hawks,
as blueberries stiffen under frost,
as young camellias lean
into the work of survival.

Everything strains, quietly,
to cross the boundary of rejection.

Yes—in between.
Between yesterday and tomorrow.
Between you and us.
Between the closing year
and the one drawing near.

We walk the narrow margin
where point becomes path,
where transition gives birth
to transformation.

Life is the courage to be honest,
the grace of one’s own cadence,
the silent blade
that turns inward.

So now—look around,
with inward eyes.
Learn to fly
even when the storm remains.

Remember the costly, thorned seed
of the sweet-gum tree.
Drink lavender tea
for the coming days.
And then speak—
not with the clamor of city kisses,
but with a quiet heart—

Happy New Year.

— TaeHun Yoon