Years end like a funeral march, beautiful

It seems, under such disappearing dusk,
years end like a funeral march, beautiful.
Seconds with frozen breath ascend to heaven.
Small lights shimmer then go quietly cold
beneath the pulse of evergreen fingers (undeterred).
Snow swirls patiently to a final resting place
with us who find, with each step, we sink lower,
lower. Soon our family will cover our eyes with
petals and coins. Another year will end.