The trees and bushes' winter look, along with the ancient/abandoned-looking stone wall, provide an image of desolation, mitigated only at the end with a pitiful (?) smile and an image of shoots that seem to spring to the foreground.
The winter solstice, a common occurrence, 4 days ago now, the shortest day of the year, is exponentially dramatized as the shortest day of life. I am not sure I can decipher what the shortest day of life can mean or look like, unless I am a being subject to seasonal life cycles or I am winter itself.
The story of Persephone comes to mind, the damsel kidnapped and married forcefully to the god of the underground and ending up being shared by the living and the dead, thus bringing life to the surface and taking it down after an agreed period.
It poses the question: who or what is the Persephone in our life? Do we have the same certainty that she will return to us?
The poem adds to a series of nostalgic descriptions of times past and loves gone.
Who is the “they” that flood the streets, if there is no one to greet? Leaves maybe, leaving their trees with a promise of a comeback?
With the arrival of winter’s frigid temperatures, people abandon the streets. Only homeless and poets wander about looking for muses and reasons.
Bad times breed deserters; only the hopeful stay.
Merry Chrismas, @d-pend.