Solstice
The land has swelled, and sleeps now, in wind-breaths and shadows, circling the earth silently and softly. She has placed her hands on the sparkling ground, frozen, dark and still.
There are spirits in the trees and drooping shrubs, glistening together in frost and bright fireside eyes, icy glow of a midwinter moon. She doesn’t sleep…
The scent of cloves and crackling coals from brightly frosted windows; mistletoe wreaths silently spread their cures and secrets. We do not know why we do any of this, only that it is enough to want, like we do, dream as we do and blame some primal instinct deep within that knows the ancient battles for a crucial gift inside we cannot name.
We celebrate the moment of our redemption, pull out wounded parts that fight no longer, offer silent tears and moments of silent despair. We come here for salvation, celebrating the birth of the Son, this same day, the Celts celebrated the birth of the Sun.
End of darkness, subtle victory, each one, over secrets deep inside the earth and silent ground.
We dig deep, all the time. Life continues underground, as day begins; light at its lowest and vital point of existence.
The Holly king, deep green crown straight from legend to window sill and glass angels reaching in to pull together two lost times, The First Christmas and all before it; a celebration of light, bright and brief. Spirits move; suddenly it’s all the same,
We struggle to learn, forgetting that it’s not the knowing, but the acceptance of not knowing that can save us. Birth and death occur in one moment. We survive both and spin onwards, unending because we never really began.
Frosty sunset, a robin circles. Curtains draw, candlelight and fireside eyes seeing more than they’ll ever know.
Children gaze at a five-pointed star.
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Lucie "What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?" WB Yeats "No Second Troy" MM Award Winner
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