January
January
January pouts like a petulant child,
Crying with rain and dreary.
“Why is fun out of favor now?
I wished for more attention and approval,
A relief from fury and fever pitch of perfecting,
A time to revive and renew, and now
Rest and relief have cunningly come, and yet
Suddenly, hollowness and longing,
Not for the flashy and flamboyant past,
But for the manger.
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