December Days
Light arrives late now,
a gift unwrapped slowly,
each dawn spilling gold across frost-etched windows,
like honey through crystalline latticework.
On the seventh,
the world leans closer,
whispers birthday into winter's ear,
and I imagine candles blazing against the shortest days,
small rebellions of flame that refuse the dark.
What I want most is this:
mornings thick with cinnamon steam,
streets glittering like someone shattered all the stars,
and swept them into careful piles along the curbs.
I want laughter that fogs the air between us,
conversations that spiral upward like smoke from chestnuts,
the kind of warmth you can almost hold.
Give me December as a doorway,
not an ending,
snow falling soft as possibility,
covering everything we thought we knew about cold.
Let the year turn on this hinge of hope:
that darkness is just another way of saying
we still have light to kindle,
that December keeps teaching us to gather close and glow.
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