Winter Tale

May the snow be thick enough to lead you out, but not so thick as to keep you in.
Merry Christmas, dear friends.


Winter Tale

When earth and sky and sweeping air -
a patient buffer, made the fair
and faithful channel of the squall
that spins between the pair -

are each, alike, in ashen-white
pelisse enveloped, ever tight,
and wholly covered by the fall
of flurries, feather-light,

and when the rushing waters still
and stiffen to the icy will,
as sets the rapids at a crawl
and calcifies the chill

that permeates the very bone
beneath the soil and the stone,
that holds the shifting surges thrall
and seals all alone,

and when each ghostly living thing
is hid away in wait of Spring
and bled until an ashen pall
recalls the bitter sting,

to lay in state, as old remains,
when life no longer runs the veins
and great has given way to small
to save the Summer gains,

then, even as the rushing snow
and crushing ice, alive in floe,
and fallen life in fleeting stall
impel the lasting low,

a resurrection will await,
if, first, a birthing bed - ornate
austerity - can send a call
as grandiose and great

as ever touched the ears of men
or granted hope of life, again,
in whispers lifted up to all
that He is born. Amen!