My little lack-of-light, my swaddled soul,   
December baby. Hush, for it is dark,   
and will grow darker still. We must embark   
directly. Bring an orange as the toll   
for Charon: he will be our gondolier.   
Upon the shore, the season pans for light,   
and solstice fish, their eyes gone milky white,   
come bearing riches for the dying year:   
solstitial kingdom. It is yours, the mime   
of branches and the drift of snow. With shaking   
hands, Persephone, the winter’s wife,   
will tender you a gift. Born in a time   
of darkness, you will learn the trick of making.   
You shall make your consolation all your life.