At seasons close, light grows weak and gaunt
Cold goose bumped skin longs for the absent sun
To live, is to be cursed with want
Though curses we know, exceed the one
To live, we linger in memories that haunt
Though we conceive flight and attempt to outrun
The cold you know, a prelude to eternal winter
All sunshine and green forever lost
Hope begins to fragment and splinter
Another of living’s endless costs
And so it is the season’s jest
That we may count all that’s blessed
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