Poor of light
poor of warmth
but rich in
last-gasping, slowly falling
leaves. . .
poor of time and oomph
to complete the ordinary, every day
and the celebratory tasks
which are the year’s end-month specialty
rich in moonlight, and in stars atwinkling
over what the passing time can mean–
How was the year?
My life till here?
And how will we see,
looking for the answers to these questions,
come all future Christmases to be?