Sam Hill and a Poem

First, the poem.  I wrote this a few years ago, but it's still one of my favorites.  And appropriate to the season.

Fall Into Winter

While the rain-bright moon lies
pillowed in a hematite sky, the dog
has been untangled one last time from the post-
harvest peach tree between the pines, our children, clean,
sleep upstairs and all is fresh.  I see now
why the Jews start their days in the evenings,
their years in the fall.

We have begun at last that sweet descent
through the aromatic pages of old
books and new, the sharpened pencils
of September, October's cat-black mystic glow,
through the spiking branches, the patient
kitchens of November.  This world turns
spare, closing in to the final present
of December spice and cloud,
all melting down
a vanilla taper
in the one golden room
the year has become.

Ok, now - What in the Sam Hill is this???  Can you guess?