The year has grown old, tired and cranky.
Its once-boisterous entrance in youthful
enthusiasm has waned, festiveness no
longer on its agenda, long-term plans beyond
its light-stepping spring season forgotten as
it groans with the effort to produce another
and yet another day, unable to muster the
energy to produce ambient light of such short
duration it's hardly a day. Warmth has eluded
the year in its progress toward termination with
memory of a long and lazy summer bright with
flowers and butterflies long faded, a brief mirage
destined to end but in its passing handing over
to Autumn the vibrant shades of the rainbow to
drape over trees the year would soon assign a
long slumber to while its winter apprentice cast
dark and early dusk over the landscape in a
dismal stage handicapping joy in the eyes of the
beholder then, contrite, showering it all with the
brilliance of shimmering sequins of ice and snow
the year's final gift before its ultimate silent exit.
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