December

Oh, reticent December.

Your intrinsic beauty is forgotten.

Your natural fairness is hidden in a holiday.

Nestled to a hearth with a tree cut from your forest,

Who can remember the icicles that grew on it?

The birds on its branches?

The woodland creatures it housed?

Next to a front porch of twinkling lights,

Who can remember the flecks of sun on your fresh fallen snow?

The stars in your clear winter sky?

The dazzling icy sunsets?

Immersed in the smell of baked cookies and pies,

Who can remember the smell of your evergreens?

The fresh juniper berries?

The smoke of cedarwood?

Cozied in a cottage of soft textures and warmth,

Who can remember your frosty bite?

The crisp winter wind?

The chill of your snow?

Who can remember your dark deep forests?

Your frozen lakes?

Your sweet serenity?

Oh, how you go unseen.

You are dignified and demure,

Blushing in the shadows,

Like a lady in waiting,

Quiet and true.

But the colors of this holiday are founded in you.

The reds of your holly berries.

The greens of your pines.

The silvers of your snowflakes.

The golds of your rising suns.

Though you are soft-spoken,

Your beauty is radiant.

It speaks for itself.

And that, sweet December,

Makes you all the lovelier.