December loneliness bears a feel
of that hardly ever spoken state
in between two living spells
that’s like a stock-still hub,
a pivot made of emptiness
rolling on the wheel of Time
at a time when cold or freezing rains
decant for a distinct, sounding tap
against the bark of leafless woods:
“Anyone down there still—ready
for yet one more round of dance?”
And that sound which much deeper
silence moves (nigher to an impressed heart)
has its way of leafing—through a life that was.
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