Wan winter sun, the second to the last
Of this, the year I chose to sonnet daily,
Your rise announced all starts of poems past
And now, upon the end you shine so palely

Upon this concept that I’m now outlining,
Which has already set my scansion spinning
I know what words may yet survive aligning,
With confidence I lacked at the beginning.

And yet I feel that I have hardly started,
Since every day’s addition is discrete,
With each idea previously uncharted-
It’s hard to see this as a single feat,

Unless it is embracing introspection,
And finding good alongside imperfection.