At the turning of the year, all things do fade
And wither in the chill of winter's frost.
We struggle to retain the gains we've made
and seek to salvage some of what's been lost.
The weariness of work and endless toil
Drains from our bones the joy of evening's rest;
No seedlings sprout from last year's tired soil.
No effort seems to turn out for the best.
So, we seek sleep, escape, tending our fires
Through nights that chill our bones without relief.
Dreading to wake to unfulfilled desires,
False hope that crumbles like a long-dead leaf.
At such a time, near fallen in defeat,
A distant music sings in our old ears.
Renewing faintest hopes of something sweet
Found in the midst of toil and loss and tears.
The longest night is over. Now begin
The next steps in the dance. My love, we win.