More than the sum of our thoughts
is our parallel December,
moving like a swordfish
under such inclement weather
We are but lonely beings when the wind comes,
to give us feathers

Less than the sum of a soul
is our parallel December,
cradled like an acorn
in such a deep and dark forever
We are but children sleeping when the wind comes,
to say, remember

More than the sum of our coins
is our parallel December,
crouching like a lioness
a tawny, starving mother