December

December stands still, yet moves within itself,
a solemn breath before the year exhales.
The air whispers secrets of frost and fire,
a quiet warmth nestled in the heart of cold.

Beneath bare trees, life lingers,
fragile as the glass ornaments we cradle,
shining and trembling,
aware of their fragility.

It is the month of hands—
hands to hold close,
hands to wave goodbye.
Snow falls like memory,
each flake a piece of what was,
melting as it lands.

The sky wears both dawn and dusk together,
an endless twilight
where time folds in on itself.
The past feels closer,
the future a breath you cannot catch.

Love in December is fierce,
burning against the chill,
because it knows it must.
Because it knows
it will soon have to let go.

And so, we wrap the year in ribbons,
in the ache of holding on,
in the grace of release.
December, you are the stillness of endings,
the weight of beginnings,
a lesson in everything
we can never quite keep.

aaditya