This  is  the  Winter  Solstice  of  an  Age

 

The  grim  news

The grim news has come to my attention

that something in the world has come unfixed —

owls no longer haunt the fir-lined alley

appearing out of dreamtime as we pass,

indeed, whole souls are missing, as if being

has itself gone dim — like an old man's seeing.

A vital light is missing from this world, by which I mean

that ephemeral gold that spins the seen

and unseen worlds together. In my life

I don't expect to see a springtime swelling

of the shriveled nut so many human spirits

have become. What's to be done?

This is the winter solstice of an age,

although the season's worst is yet to come.

What's delicate and true has come undone:

is the only fitting answer

a pure and focused rage?

Today I wove a wreath of bone and fir

and filbert withes; twined in sacred holly,

incense cedar from an ancient tree.

I wove, affixed a star, and spoke a spell:

"Let this circle stand as the gate of winter-

sure passage to the days of lengthening light."

And then I whispered names in the fragrant bough

Lacing love like a scarlet ribbon through the fronds.

Long I wove and dreamed back friends and kin,

each great soul calling back the sun.

I thought at last, "My life here is not done."

and some bright star rekindled from within.

Sandra Brown