Winter's Dawn
a poem
Can you feel the darkness
resting heavy on your skin?
The stars have ceased their chattering,
and we hold our frosted breath.
When evergreen merrymaking has ebbed
and we long for the flicker of morning
seeking that spark of hope on the horizon,
an end to this maddening suspension.
It’s the Yuletide vigil—
a pagan rite from ages past,
when the gods guaranteed nothing
but a sun’s return.
His presence arrives slowest in winter,
to that murky edge of dawn
and so, we huddle longer tonight
than any other for our assurances.
Like a foundling,
he’s too weak to offer us warmth
yet we welcome him nonetheless
once he crests the dividing line.
With open arms and relieved sigh
we softly celebrate.
Hope walks in golden glow
and the interminable gloom gives way.
Such is the cycle of nature, of light and dark,
and the December witch who bears witness.