The superficial feel of a day merging into the next is highlighted more in December.

The few short hours in which the remaining, decaying leaves on the ground

deposit their skid-like dead mark forever in the winter blasted ember,

only to be eaten away by the snow and harshness of the chilling, frost biting sound.

December is the widow of our years.

It fights for all its worth against the final reckoning,

but it knows that soon, very soon, it will sleep forever and in no more tears

and that its child will grow up and with lament for the past, regretfully sing.

December, the cruelty in which you deal as you die

is but the frightened squeal of one too stubborn to submit

to Time, the master of the earthy promise to remember all.

The horror, the loss, the cheer and the pain, the autumn is gone, and now you cry

for Time to be added upon to you, that the day be once more lit

before your croaking voice, damaged, scared and beaten, is unable to call.

Ian D. Hall