1474.

A game of cycles.
Each turn requiring a
new check of its weights.

1473.

Eventually
the necessary changes
find their own balance.

1472.

How quickly the tone
turns a morose corner in
need of leavening.

1471.

Soon the shift to new
will feel less foreign and just
inevitable.

1470.

A moody refrain
to dress the season in some
backwards ode. Honor.

1469.

I used to look for
people sharing my birthday.
Now I resent them.

1468.

Hours built in flux.
Anticipation quickly
will turn to sadness.