In the middle of December, the long, dark tunnel of the holidays
Yawns before us, and we think the new year is far away.
But nothing is far away. December will be over before we know it.
Next week, in January, the one we love will still be a tortured poet,
Anxious to show us (beside a dirty snow bank) his tortured rhymes,
Flailing, imitating, or not imitating, December’s ancient times.
Long ago, they thought this in December, too, or when the wind was cold,
Whatever that month was, they thought things were moving away, and things were old,
And darkness was closing in, and love would be lost forever,
Even if December was brighter than ever,
And there was peace, and strangely milder weather.
Nothing changes. The one you loved is still irritated by the same things.
Life’s a book. Nothing is far away. The pages are pressed together!
We imagine the weddings and the happiness and the rings.