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
