December light (weather, personified)

I think the weather is in pain.
When he walks, his head is hung, stature reeking of sour defeat, because he just can't break the snow threshold. He wants it so badly.
When he walks, he nearly crumbles, because the weight of what December's soft, snowy spirit Should Be presses on his shoulders.
When he speaks, his voice is far too soft for them to hear, or it's too loud, and knocks the dwindling gray branches from the trees.
When he speaks, his tone is cold, sending shivers through our bones; his breath sends a tidal wave of frost to caress the ground.
We are briefly taken aback.
We are not satisfied, though. Never satisfied. Alas, we turn our backs again, because December has failed us.
We turn our backs, ceasing to see the light on the train tracks. The sunrise glints and reflects, warming the metal.
The sky is orange and yellow, and the plants have been dusted in a burgundy, wine-tinted purple.
Look at that, we say. Isn't that pretty?
Yes, it is pretty. And, I will have you know that it is a work of December himself.
Snow has not failed us; it is only shyer this time around. Oh, December, please don't secede.
We will wait for you, yet in the meantime, we will savor your glow on the train tracks. It won't last long, and
it really is pretty.