In this sun-weary city
December is spring
When we like to shiver
In the cold air,
Find use for the sweater
Buried under the pile of summer wear,
For once in the year
Not complaining
About the weather,
Sitting up at night
Listening to the silence
Like to an unearthly song
When even the dog's barking
Seems like singing,
Then wishing one could sleep longer
Letting the dream run some more
Keeping the day waiting at the door,
Looking with pleasure
At the noiseless shower
Coming from somewhere
And trying to make things disappear.
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nothing but poetry
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