Friday, December 9, 2011
a low flute plays from somewhere in the misty hills,
a woman sings
five long tones in an unknown tongue
in random sequence,
a solemn hymn,
over and over the melody drifting,
a carol to mystery,
the forest sighing remembers
shepherd melodies like this one.
Then as if mistaking silence as solitude,
assuming quiet moments are privacy,
rocks shift comfortably all around me,
shouldering warm blankets of green,
promises under snow
in soft beds of moss.
I hold my breath,
it is Christmas,
all creation seems alive with secrets,
as though life itself, an infant,
has been born anew.
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