Twelve days, before Christmas

Broad sorrow: winter’s cold fell on the land; open fields, no shelter.
My fingers all crooked with fear; acid stress running through veins;
Muscles cramping for rest; crying out, oxygen debt, the wall.
Don’t make those assumptions, try to see not perceive,
Why look for a threat behind every shadow?
Does it matter who gained the most?
Had we goodwill, or selfish desires?
When did we last trust?
Then asking for help:
When it came,
Was it

Solstice Eve

Clear skies above a cold day:
a tricking frosty early morning,
icy edge of wind this afternoon;

Music drifts in from the next room,
smokers hang out across the way,
addicted to their habits,

As I fix on thoughts of her,
who fought so hard to reach out,
to what I can take for granted.

Remembered: calmly pushing back her hair,
nervously tearing shreds of paper,
stepping lightly in her beauty;

The most fragile shine the brightest,
the kindest words come from the poorest,
those who’ve failed will learn the most.

Always, the closest can hurt us most:
that fear is true, but is it honest,
and when would it allow for joy?

So as I study, becalmed, by a window,
welcoming the peace that stillness brings,
imperceptibly my life will lengthen

Even as its days are short. Has it
a new beginning, as yet unknown,
unexpected, unsuspected, immaculate?

Low thoughts of loss alongside respite;
hours of daylight in a dark season;
tomorrow’s solstice: it will turn —-

And what of life? Is it a season,
a year, a cycle? Or too uncertain?
But, in compassion, we may share it.