Christmas Traveling

Early dark - December dusk;

headlights cocoon us,

still - we want the welcome which lies

just out of view:

The old home place - oil lamps -

delicate curtains and crocheted doilies;

Ghost scent from the coal stove;

Sunday dinner still on the table

beneath the checked cloth;

A hall tree laden with coats,

boots and gloves piled just inside the door;

A stairway which waits to be climbed,

waits for the exhale,

the purr of bodies beneath winter quilts,

waits to bestow the 2 AM creak.

December dark evening -

headlights and home enclose us

but we still want

what lies just out of sight:

Mystery, magic, excitement, romance;

Solace for the tears;

Bounty for every child;

A gift on the table

wrapped in cotton cloth

tied with silk ribbon;

Here the dilemma -

Will a mystery opened bring disappointment?

Do we want answers

or only the constant desire?

May you never loose

the wish for magic,

the allure of Bethlehem.

Villanelle

December Villanelle

Here, in the near blue light

The holiness of happiness happens,

Leads us toward a blessed night.

While universes spin their own delight,

We lean toward that which beckons.

Here in the near blue light

Beside us now the birds takes flight

Soar gently – linger at the margins

Lead us toward a blessed night.

Where questions hold us tight

And answers promise options

Here in the near blue light

Falling now toward twilight

Anxious to embrace this season

Which leads us toward a blessed night.

This journey joins us – is our birthright

Moves us out beyond all reason

Here the near blue light

That leads us toward a blessed night.

Hush

Listen

pine tree

whispers a green

story of hope.  Cold wind

mummers a white song of grace.

Cardinal shouts a red promise of truth.

The solstice has turned time, and minute

by minute we move toward the light of joy!

█

Peace & Light To You!

December

Wind blows in the Hunting Moon of December.

Snow moves out beyond Pocahontas County,

spreads the shawl of Winter across West Virginia.

Those in the eastern mountains

learn early, in the slate of this month,

the love for spruce and cedar,

the scent of things not dead.

Daily farmers go out to feed,

break ice at watering holes,

this is their task till spring.

Days are cold and silent,

we search for light and heat.

The paradox of winter tells us

that life is death, and death is life,

there is little separation now.

The sun wanes into the Winter Solstice

the shortest day surrounded by the longest nights.

Logs blaze in this Holy Month as we

watch shadow of pine on ground and snow,

shout an emerald blessing.