Low Winter Sun

Golden light bathes the trees,
 it mingles through naked branches
 touched softly by the frigid breeze.
 Perpetual twilight hangs in the air
 promising darkness will soon be there.
 Until then, it's only a whispered threat,
 making one ponder with too much regret,

 "What hasn't been done in the shortness of light
 that could have been done
 before the day takes flight?"

 Now darkness draws near, the sun cries out
 like a newborn infant, screaming to live,
desperately, a shout.
 The sun fights in bright amber glory,
 struggling to finish its epic short story,
 "Finish the day", it cries, "as it began,
 in long shadows and promises
 of a long life at hand."