Before the sun rises:
The ice hardens
As the wind
Sheds a throw 
Of deep snow.
	It’s December.

Before the sun rises:
The smoke stiffens
As it lifts
From the stack 
That is black.
	It’s December.

Before the sun rises:
The air shivers
As the branch
Filled with flakes
Finally breaks.
	It’s December.

Before the sun rises:
The moon glistens
In the blue
Like a tear
On the cheek
Of the day
That is new.
	It’s December.

Before the sun rises:
The elk watches
As the bliss
Of the dawn
Gives the frost
On the trees
A pink kiss.
	It’s December.

And while the sun rises:
The earth listens
As the dark
Finally flees
From the trees,
And the sun
Jumps the hill’s
Windowsills,
And strikes light
That is bright
On the waves
Of the drifts
That are white.
	It’s December.

COPYRIGHT 2021 BROOKLYN K. BIEGEL