fair warning for all small creatures
scurrying to their burrows.
Are we not still and always
those crouching figures
who flee the heavenly alchemy?
Three times in the crackling air,
Owl hoots for us.
*
Wind plays the drums of snow...
staccato taps,
crescendo off the roofs,
flourish of shuddering branches.
Ice snaps its castanets,
its daggers.
Atonal music of the darkest days
needs the most fearless,
subtle listeners.
*
Those strumming flamenco
fingers of sunlight
are a long time away from now.
Now we go comforted
in dreams and ceremonies,
flaming our star-speck candles,
raising our voices against that other music,
drowning out the forever
at night's heart.
*
Look up! The wheel is turning.
The spectacular crowd of stars,
the tangle of dimensions
jostle for our attention.
Salute the birth of everything holy.
Yule (the winter solstice) arrives this weekend, and those of us who dwell in the northern hemisphere will be turning toward the light again. This lovely poem was written by Dolores Stewart Riccio and published in her exquisite Doors to the Universe. It is posted here with the kind permission of the poet.
