Season of the sun in its faraway tilt,
days of opposites, of compensation;
silent night and jingle bells,
while cash registers
ring themselves
out of the red, hearts shrink, pockets swell,
skeletal sycamore
outside the window
in its requiem mass against hallelujah
spruce, lit and
tinseled inside.
The glitz we insist
upon
to propitiate the
gods
against the dying of
the light.
We gift wrap our
eyes.
to imagine the fabled baby
within a manger of
bulbs
on the wild desert
floor.
Deck the halls with lit menorahs
to answer the sun in its apogee.
Only by great
exertion can those
in the hemisphere
below
take our myth as
theirs,
of candles or White
Christmas,
sleighs dancing through the
snow
in a one-horse heat
of December summer,
just like the ones
they never knew.
As in the cycle of
my life,
now in the mind of
winter,
I feel no discontent
on my inscape,
in spite of the
shadows cast.
Something new is daily born.
This is so beautiful - thank you!
ReplyDeleteI seem to have bypassed winter incidentally, yesterday having slipped from late fall to late spring by dint of equatorial inversion. Never felt a spring like this before, though - it's 89 degrees F and 70% humidity. Half an hour waiting for someone outside this morning, and I no longer think the "F" stands for "Fahrenheit"...
Happy Equatorial Inversion
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