As a child, I spent the last week of December
under gray skies, the old year like landscape fading out.
Days of new toys and boredom,
a scent of drying pine needles and cold wax
the sadness of soon-to-be abandoned trees.
For a few more hours, they are in sync,
Kislev and December --
sun and moon made love during the darkest time.
Tonight, by the first silver sliver, they drift apart again,
the distance growing with each remaining candle lit....