I celebrate the drawing-in of days, <br /> a dowsing of the sunlight, <br /> early camouflage of going home, or <br /> of not going home, <br /> a shrill scent again of clementine <br /> and a festal moon behind the wavering hatch <br /> of bare, connecting highways. <br /> <br /> I celebrate this, feeling vaguely tipsy <br /> after a careful glass, <br /> after one simple glass <br /> of chill, white wine in candid crystal, <br /> neither so remarkable for whiteness, <br /> yet the two <br /> sending out reflections to intensify <br /> a temporary wonder.<br /><br />Amy Hollins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/december-as-near-as-makes-no-matter/
