Hearts absent of hope, cheer, and light
struggle to find honest means of greeting
new days as we spin again around the sun.
What can such darkness offer?
What is true of now?
That there is more to mourn
than welcome in joy? More to fear
than can be courageously met?
That bodies besieged by virus
cannot overcome its cresting waves?
That spirits beaten by flood, wind, and fire,
that have pushed past endurance
against the endless emanation of hate,
And yet the turning brings us to a new place.
We must be new to meet it.
The child brings us each a mirror that we may hold
in peaceful and fierce inquisition (hope deserves no less),
searching our weary hearts for memories, for music,
for paths we have forgotten, or never known
(yet there they have waited, patient centuries of gestation),
gifts long unused, or never opened,
words unspoken, hurts unhealed, there in the shadows.
Finally, finally, in this darkness,
let us see the seed that grows;
let our light be fully born.
Let us welcome its presence,
excavate its strata of meaning,
listen to its wisdom,
translate why we’re here into what we do,
know the substance of who
then turn the mirrors out to the sun, to the stars
where dreams dwell, and slant the radiance back, to
burn away the false in our hearts and spirits,
and let our hope rise and overflow, recoloring the world
till we speak new words, the language of mystery and
Love, finding its way through all creation
as it was meant to do since the world’s beginning.
We must only be who we were made to be,
art in communion,
gift to each other,
frail, flawed, and favored with abundant life
and another chance to welcome its embrace
in gratitude and grace.
Then let us gently hold the hands
of lover and stranger, one to another,
and take our first steps into the finally born
and perfect real.
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