In December it is evening every day.
The horizon fog holds the sun from dream to dream,
And the dream of evening is where we stay.
Winter is for the wealthy, who go away.
The final, bending solar beam
Makes itself comfortable in the one dream,
Which we saw when night and summer welcomed in eternal day;
The glaring sunshine knew
Sorrow quickly, and things mourned were few.
I remember we rhymed December with remember.
The memory of one dark December
Is forgotten now, or I never knew.
I’d remember every December, and if I knew how, I’d remember you.
December’s dark streets and empty trees
Are lights and delights now for these.
Memory is a skill for the not so sorrowful who write:
A helpless, flaming purge against eternal night.