Happy Wintersolstice!
At Wintersolstice,
the backbone of the night,
as a ghostly dotted veil of campfires
dancing in a whirl of fumes,
arches longest over a world shivering
and more dull than livid, stripped of fragrances,
even of decaying fruits forgotten to be harvest
before the barns were closed and icy talons raped the land.
And for the few who dare the calamity of elements outside
their cosy den, and whose eyes peel layers of crusted infatuations
and inflations of illusory commonplaceness,
there's this hovering reassurance, unperturbed and aloof,
a canopy of light though that beckons to hope, sense and love
in harbours formerly unknown, often obliqued in daily consciousness,
and in the rush of events and habits, that pins the soul down
in its self-created pool of direness,
now lifted up to citizenship
of the abiding grace.
the backbone of the night,
as a ghostly dotted veil of campfires
dancing in a whirl of fumes,
arches longest over a world shivering
and more dull than livid, stripped of fragrances,
even of decaying fruits forgotten to be harvest
before the barns were closed and icy talons raped the land.
And for the few who dare the calamity of elements outside
their cosy den, and whose eyes peel layers of crusted infatuations
and inflations of illusory commonplaceness,
there's this hovering reassurance, unperturbed and aloof,
a canopy of light though that beckons to hope, sense and love
in harbours formerly unknown, often obliqued in daily consciousness,
and in the rush of events and habits, that pins the soul down
in its self-created pool of direness,
now lifted up to citizenship
of the abiding grace.
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