The Coldest Day of the Year

burning-wood

I

 

Near yourself to the fire.

We will pour the coffee

and warm our hands.

The plow is on the

truck, the tractor is in the

barn. Dogs that would

otherwise snort off the

call indoors are whining

for a place to curl and

close their eyes.

Now, we wait for the snow to fall

from the seams between the

morning stars.

Let us sit and talk of

a fond remembrance of

our years as children

of the North. The

wind might tell us of

its purpose.

 

II

 

We have no need

to parcel out the coming storm

to an unwise contempt.

We hardly understand ourselves,

so let alone the weather.

We live on a mountainside

raised by the quaking earth

and polished by glaciers.

The genetic code that

shapes our bodies and our being

has been found in bones that are

four hundred thousand years old.

We are just the current stratification.

Our vigor for health and increase is

equal to the forces wrought of a

beautiful world.

These are of the unity,

the light

and the virtues.

 

III

 

The trees are lit

for tis the season

and though my Christ

has long transfigured cosmic,

I see in the deep of you

the nature of that fabled infant.

It surges out from under all

you have learned to believe, all

you have swallowed

through your ears.

The cacophony of misconstructions

about the double-mind,

the falsehoods

and the turpitudes.

No longer will we listen

to those who yearn for heaven

while stuffing their own stockings

full of coal.

Our life is not a game of

penitence but of becoming

who we already are.

I too concur

and now infer

the truth of advent

that kindles the flame of our spirits

on this, the coldest day of the year;

like the child we herald

come to band with our

faith,

you, my brother, and

you, my sister, are

whole,

you are true, and

you are good.

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