The smell of newly mown grass
deserts us in the winter,
stark-naked trees
occasionally glimmer
in the moonlight;
now the solstice is passed
we move slowly back to November
the dimming of the day.
Starved of sunlight
we stagger into
a year we know nothing of,
a real unknown unknown,
like three blind mice
we scurry away
hoping, just hoping,
that the strangled scream
and the carving knife
will pass us by.