Dwindling

The days unmarked flow by, the nights forgot;
The rhythm only of the world remains.
I do what I have done. It's not a lot.
The season does not call for many brains,
So mine just disengages as we slide
Slowly out of December. Snow piles high.
And we beneath it simply must abide
Waiting for some cessation in the sky.
The clouds roll by uncaring of below
The sun shines down, but does not warm the day
Which oozes itself out, viscously slow
In shades of white, offwhite, and almost-gray.
Each moment blends together, and each year
Why one should end, one start, is still unclear.