winter rolls over the bleeding autumn,
paints over its limp and aimlessly drifting leaves
with blankets of snow.
december finds its way onto the canvas first,
short&cold&dark while people lock themselves inside their houses
to put up strings of lights on plastic trees
and call it a season of holiday and good cheer.
december reaches for the last day of the year
in an understated conclusion,
burying january&february&march&april&may&june&july&august&september&october&november
behind it, standing on the canvas,
alone.
darling, we dream of december.