November gone,
its marigold light,
and plane trees bleeding fire;
Stalks of dead sunflowers stand,
brown ghosts amid the smoke of twilights.
December now. Bright stars are visible.
The abacus of days counts down;
the Oak Moon wanes
Button seeds hang
from the bare twigs of sycamores.
Red skies at sundown, and the blue
snow-wind of bitter mornings. Early dark;
lights blooming in the Christmas trees.
We dream, like Horace, of gardens
and springs of ever-flowing water.
We long for flowers, bees;
for soft spring air
to stir the wind vanes.
Wan sun of Solstice noon
casts its pale promise
of the lengthening days.
Now, in remembered woodlands,
witch hazel waits to bloom,
to open its four
bright-yellow petals.
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