On the shortest day of the year,
The sun is far down in the sky.
Light slants across the bare trees
And the brown grass.
As dusk falls, without clouds,
The light fades, leaving only
A glowing band of red-gold
Behind the trees and rooftops.
The sky is a luminous gray,
Misty in the unseasonable warmth.
The last of the light reflects in the
Still waters of the backyard pond
As the Christmas lights,
Multicolored and gay,
Begin to assert themselves
Against the encroaching dark.