Behold, December opens up her arms,
And bids me stay the distance, if I can.
A month known best for candied, candled charms;
She sits there, now, forbidding, on the span.
The wind blows icy through me, on its way;
Bare branches stand, where late were orange tresses.
Behold, December stands arrayed in gray,
Allowing me to see her, ere she dresses
In all the finery she’ll don with care —
The real her stands before me, cold