Sunday, December 18, 2011

From Christmas Past


A broken world,
fallen wreckage,
a crash site,
all souls lost,
in rising smoke see them waft
and swim, broken,
disembodied of all glory,
twisting in the dawning,

I among them in a dance
to the screams of tearing steel.

In this December enigma,
diaphanous lungs stretch
scars and rasping sing
glory to our only hope,
glory to the new born king.


mighty word rendered
in mighty music
choirs filling
stone halls
with resurrection
massive locked doors
since heard the very first word
and stone began to breathe


A quiet cold December evening
listening to the creaking
of the hot stove.

Icy fingernails
scratch the siding
my outer walls.

Slender white hands
of Maiden Winter
feel around doors,
window frames,
seeking slivery cracks
for drafts of entry.

We have burned
all the books
but one,

Another log.
all is well,
I found another log
provided for the fire.

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