December, and the Light is Low and Cutting
Sky filters through scant woods
printing a cold sunlight on shadowed tree trunks.
Only December has this light,
it both scours and forages,
it scythes away all heaped-up flotsam.
A December wind,
sings its own death song.
Ice hangs unseen upon the air.
The woodland acres shimmer,
then tremble upon a long fading note,
one that ushers in
last rites and other mixed blessings.
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