(no subject)

[fledgist]

Another year draws at last to its close,
what's been completed and what's left undone
will see another year's first ray of sun,
but little will be different I suppose.
The sun illuminates some painted rose,
but not a live one. If this were plain prose
I'd say it longer, make some vulgar pun;
instead I find myself drawn here to write,
about imagined flowers in this grey season.
I'd want to say otherwise but that would be wrong.
Rather, I look outside at the pale light
and wonder on this day at time's subtle treason,
yet still I hear a bird uttering song.