The last days of this year are like an old staircase

That I don’t have to pay much attention to as it gets climbed

And so I become overwhelmed by crisp air made of long ago memories snug and bright

Like the music of a busker fiddler that has the scent of all that is tremulous

As I slowly trim the candle of this season

More than content in all that it has so bountifully gifted unto me

Yet not at all anxious for it to fade away but which it surely will despite my most fervent pleas