Soon the glass angel must be
Wrapped and put away,
And this hard year swept out
Like tinsel from the Christmas tree —
The end of December, aromatic in its homely smoke, and the thin limbs
Of maple and ash, the pipecleaner pines,
Briushing themselves againsy
The cold carbons of evening . . . .
— Elton Glaser
As usual, the seasons change too fast.
This year’s early balmy spell so leisurely,
Convincing, it tricks even the cautious
White magnolia into opening
And giving up its petals to a sudden
Change of air, to scatter on the ground . . .
— Jacqueline Osherow
The longest night is past.
It is the blessed morning of the year.
Beyond the window, snow
in patches on the river bank,
frosty sunlight on the dry corn,
and buds on the water maples
red, red in the cold.
— Wendell Berry
Now winter downs the dying of the year
And night is all a settlement of snow;
From the soft street the rooms of houses show
A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere.
— Richard Wilbur