It's the funeral march to the end of the year,
just a number, just a month, with joy to the world
and a slithering trail of regrets gaining on me
like a holiday rattlesnake about to strike, sending poison
to the veiny, icy backs of my hands. Visions relentlessly
knock at the frosted windowpane of my mind
not of fairies and plums, but that first wet snowflake
on the windshield, that sudden chord of a song,
a broken ornament, children who are no longer children,
what the year was not, and someone who is not here.
Silent snow falls on my winter sorrows, until I look up
from my lament and see God in your eyes.