It is now I miss you the most
When December suns rise on the hill
I know it is more than your ghost
It is now I miss you the most
It is you on your sled – well almost
You are here in the winter’s chill
It is now I miss you the most
When December suns rise on the hill.
To learn about the Triolet Form, see PoetryFoundation.org.
Smoky Quartz 