M'hm.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCMII)
Ah shortest day, the heavns are blue fr'intents.
Dead lawns spread out below tan, rolling vale
To hill, now basking in the tender scale
Of golden light whose eye is Spring's, a sense
In tour of March or April haunting whence
As Xmas strains waltz through the hours t'avail;
And shortbread's finally baking, that detail
What I have mulled since Autumn, like defense.
The dream this festive season spawns as twere
Is what we chase from year to year, the view
Tricked out to urge it on, our griefs in tour
But what it augured, til all that we knew
Is buried, to ensure it'd flourish. Stir
Hope of a better day? Oh LORD, tis You.
21Dec25b