its that tiny little spark
that had not been a flame
for so many years
grief and sadness had taken their toll
and the idea of joy
could not be held in my heart
it seemed impossible
no kindling or match to strike
it into flower
the ember guttered and went cold
but somehow
this year
a new wind has come up
breathing that cold ash
into a glowing hint
of tiny flame
just enough to warm my hands
a reclamation is needed
of the edifice, artifice
constructed, oh these many years
I tear it down and discard the rubble
I put on new clothes, new skin
burning all into ash in the solstice pyre
reclaiming from the rising sparks,
that which was always mine
the light, shining spirit, scrubbed down
sanded smooth after years of accumulation
here, I shout, here is the heart of joy
here is the barefoot soul ready to dance
here is all that I have always been
now reclaimed, now renewed
perspective of the season changes
as years pile on top of one another
like the drifts of autumn leaves
or snow along the roadside
we accumulate memory, traditions, perspectives
useful in earlier lives and times
no longer green fragrant branches
but delicate as gold tissue
hold these tenderly, lovingly
breathe in the scent of new hay
smell the wool and wood
inhale that warm perfume
frankincense and myrrh
on the tiny Babes skin
let the perspective change again
we wake in darkness
time and the sun creep before the solstice
shuffling in this years old worn shoes
weary and wandering from window to door
we search the horizon
for that glimmer of hope
always longing for the Light
of a quavering sun
or the Star in the East
a dusty road
a donkey and sheep
inn and stable
angels appearing above fields
shepherds watching their flock
and the star
that ancient portent
star of wonder
star of the new world coming
and its tiny baby King
alleluia alleluia
with breathless wonder
December is welcomed-
this year with open arms
decorations, long stored away,
reappear under delicate tissue and tinsel,
pristine in their nostalgia
recipes, dusty with ancient flour
and memories, awaken senses
from long ago kitchens
wrapping, ribbon, old bows,
adorn newly polished relics
damasked and sewn
chalk figures purchased with pennies
gaze in adoration at the Baby
in the creased cardboard stable
this is the year of my delight-
Christmas is mine again
Second week of Advent
thecourseofourseasons 