December
 
The last leaf, curling
in the cold,
slips its hold,
unfurling
like a fugitive, faded 
flag, forlorn,
jaded,
upon the winter tempest borne.

The last light, restless, 
tragic 
slattern,
in her magic 
pattern, 
undresses,
a panoramic vista through the trees,
glimpses of her ankles and her knees.
      
The last hope lies grizzled, 
now, and grayed,
frazzled
his trousers torn, his sweater frayed,
exhausted, falling,
crumpled heap,
as semblances of sleep
come crawling.

The last dance, 
the holidays grow hectic,
winterís metronome electric,
a dead manís chance.
I never stop
the madness to unwind,
mind
the meter and the music till I drop.
      

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December Tree

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