Winter begins—chilly and indifferent—
on the day with the least light.
It was the same the morning I was born,
rainy like today, my 65th turn.  

The perennials, now dry and lifeless,
will be back next year, stronger and more vibrant.
Maybe not me.
My days are shorter now.
They tick off willfully,
despite my efforts.

With the change of clocks, darkness descends.
We always want more light,
but what if the longest night is a gift?
Outside the stars are clearer overhead.
On the street you can see how people
light their own way.

Author: Nancy Lubarsky

Photo: Aaron Burden on Unsplash

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