Too soon the infant year grows old
and winter’s grip is long and cold
so, eagerly I treat the sun
as if it were a prize I’d won
and would not put aside until
the winning of it lost its thrill.
Reptilian, I take my fill;
consuming what, come winter, will
seem simply one more fable spun
to light the dark and paint the dun
decrepit world in hues of gold
my pallid skin will fail to hold.