December Fifth
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Splinters of Winter Light
December morning, my footsteps crunch
the crystalled grass.
Looking up through frozen birches, and beyond
my arms lift their hands: palms, thin fingers
stretch with praise to the winter sun
splintering rays through icy limbs.
I give my self afresh—to the Risen One.
The whole domed canvas of wide sky
shines winter blue, brushed white strokes
of high cirrus: windy tails of ghost-horses
like wisps of spirit running, slow motion
across the empty skies of time.
One Chickadee arrives, thirsty
and perturbed at the frozen pool.
She pecks the plate of ice
till it breaks open, just a bit.
She sips and sings, and flies away.
In the far meadow two deer
are standing in the open
a moment sculpted, like statues.
A poise of grace and fear
their blue shadows stretch out long and thin
down the frosted hill.
Something frightens them. They bound off,
disappear in the shadowed wood.
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–Quilla
What Can One Say?
What can one say—after all that’s gone, and come before this somber autumn day?
Sweet woodsmoke curls again above the frost. Fragrant scarves unfurl from the chimney
the warm feminine scent of shelter, of touch and cherished recollections—are these
all but lost?
^
Please say to me what one can say—when it seems the only birds left are crows, snarling beyond
the closed windows, harsh black caws in the oaks all day, that winter talk in the darkened woods.
When just a few tough leaves of summer linger, like closed scarlet hands, like claws of frozen blood?
^
What can one say—when what we fear is far too much to feel, much less, to talk about. But tell me
anyway: this time of year when we know that we are older, fragile and infirm, wandering further apart;
and a colder wind starts moaning again through the naked woods of each November heart?
^
What can one say—when gazing straight into the mouth of the storm-darkened North
through stripped birch trees, their thin, sere limbs shaking down the last gold leaves?
And silver balalaika tunes come quivering into our midnight rooms, weeping the agonies
of arguments and war, the tender vanquished joy of human love?
^
—Please tell me, while we’re waiting here with opened hands, another winter stalking down
the tundra sky with fear, the grey howls of hungry wolves tearing across the humbled land;
and we can’t help but see what’s been shattered, burned and damned, what can one truly say?
^
—Only this, but surely this with certain faith: out of the rubble, ravage, greed and death, the untold wastes:
One has risen, a Star at dawn among these fluttering candle flames, these broken reeds, redeeming what’s been
lost. His radiance is gleaming pure, above and beyond all time.
So find His beauty in His truth: a perfect Love that burns in the smoking fragments, the fleeting faces,
in all the moments that shine.
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Ruach 333, by Quilla 