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Poem

'Twas the twilight of the year 
     a twinkling tiara.
December 31st, digits dancing dunes 
     in the Sahara.
One, two, three, one, two, three, 
     it's a prance.
A numerical Irish step dance 
     given a whimsical chance.

In the calendar's corners,
      a magical mystery unfurls.
As the date spins and swirls 
     like a jester's jingling twirls.
One, two, three, one, two, three, 
     in a line.
A date so divine, 
     it deserves its own shrine 
          so fine!

But wait, what's this? A satirical twist!
The date's just a number 
     it doesn't exist!
One, two, three, one, two, three, 
     what's the fuss?
Wait… all dates are human-
     created
          YES, by us!

The numbers are shocked 
     feeling quite superfluous.
In the grand scheme of things 
     oh so ridiculous!

So here's to the New Year 
     let's raise a toast.
To the date that we've come 
     to boast the most.
With champagne that sparkles 
     and tastes like the sun.
2023 is yet undone 
     run from the old 
          to the new one, 
               run, run, run!

In the canon of the digits 
     a lesson we see.
Time is a construct 
     as fluid as the sea.
So let's celebrate the moments 
     both big and small.
For, in the end 
     they're the most 
          precious of all.

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