1187.

An embodiment
of the outward, painted in.
A slow surrender.

1186.

Caught up in a soft
lassitude. The muted lows
of winter, stretching.

1185.

The season marches
through your bones in cold whispers.
Always left haunting.

1184.

So quickly the day
passes from glory back to
the ceaseless banal.

1183.

Trees, presents, and food.
Glut yourself with joy because
regret lasts longer.

1182.

A celebration
on the cusp. Merry Christmas
Eve wee little bairns.

1181.

Cold days press down on
a soul's struggle to fill in
the missing hollows.