As I write this, the air outside bites with clarity and cold. The sky is a crystaline blue and the sun warms every surface it touches. But the days are short this time of year. Within a couple of hours the long, dark night will settle around us. As Christmas Day approaches, in the midst of the pressuring dark, I share the following poem:
It is an early morning like all others.
The moonlight slants along the snow. Faint stars
Dissolve into the sky. The household,
Cat and children, deeply sleep.
It is morning like no other morning.
There is a signifying in the silver dawn.
Stars hesitate, streets listen,
Snow melts in tenderness, trees wait.
The strangeness of the moment quiets lungs
and blood. The touching of a cup,
The turning of a page, is holy.
Even the stillness of the room breathes wonder.
Child, Light to my soul-shadow, my confusion,
Coming sweetly, and so small,
Growing within, a stealth, a mystery –
I am moved by this simplicity.
Transfixed with thanks, folded in love,
I cannot adore enough. I cannot speak.
Like trees and snow and stars and street,
I too am silent in the widening light.
Myrna Reid Grant