The superficial feel of a day merging into the next is highlighted more in December.

The few short hours in which the remaining, decaying leaves on the ground

deposit their skid-like dead mark forever in the winter blasted ember,

only to be eaten away by the snow and harshness of the chilling, frost biting sound.

December is the widow of our years.

It fights for all its worth against the final reckoning,

but it knows that soon, very soon, it will sleep forever and in no more tears