December Day Poem by Barry Middleton

On a day in December,
with days growing short,
memory is an ember,
firing life's last resort.

Some memories are crystal,
some are dark with regret,
some are only a riddle
I can never forget.

Some I will cling to,
some I gladly let go,
soft kisses I once knew,
pain I could not show.

In time's dim archive,
all the up and the down,
lets me know I'm alive,
till the mystery is found.

I am old but I still plan
a new memory or two,
to take a last stand,
give December its due.