Now the stark days of December 
usher in long hours of cold.
Grey clouds spill on the horizon 
as setting sun spills gold.

Jupiter and Geminid 
meteors rehearse their part.
Though winter black’s a heavy garment, 
a light shines in the dark.

Like shepherds, dazed by angels, 
we face these days with awe.
We gather and we kneel before 
a manger filled with straw.

First the holy infant startles, 
then settles in to nurse.
So too must all here be unrest 
before peace breaks on earth.

Like a hunter fitting an arrow to the bow
I am trying to find the shortest distance to you.
Like a meandering vine growing towards the sun,
Like a wave lapping the shore.

Light rays like arrows pierce the restless waves,
Refract and come to rest, or illuminate,
the creatures of the dark, beneath the waves.

I am trying to find the shortest distance to you
Like rain pelting the earth
Like the compass needle’s restless swing
toward the pole

Restless until I rest in you.

Clouds	
fill in the valley.
Mountains	
disappear
behind 	
whisper
of 
fog.

Water bears 
the weight of ice. The petal withstands 
the sway of the honeybee.
The branch bears 
the weight of the nest, 
and even the tree trunk 
yields to the blade of the axe 
and then resurfaces—
to do what love must do:
Bear, believe, hope and endure—
enlarging the capacity 
to embrace, setting down 
tree rings like tracks—
the living bark the antidote 
to injury.

Within the tree,
rings enclose 
and transform injury 
to possibility.

See how the placid mirror
Of the lake
Absorbs the rock
Without breaking
Transforming 
Injury to song.

I wanted 
to hold back 
the darkness 
but no more could I do that 
than a waning moon 
can roll back 
the curtain of night.

Lightning flashes 
on the sky stage. 
Thunder, the second act.
Then, rain falls
on and on, 
continuous 
liquid applause.

Rain, like love, 
makes the crooked way 
straight. Though 
unpredictable at times, love 
wears down 
the rock, but nonetheless, 
as any unrequited 
lover will confess, 
some hearts 
remain 
as closed 
as granite.

Like a sheepdog 
biting at my ankles—
mosquitoes in hot pursuit.

Everything hangs on love 
like the door on its hinge. 
Everything rests on love 
like the water strider 
on the pond ripples. 

Like a carpenter planing 
a plank of wood, 
love makes the rough way 
smooth. 

Like the sun at daybreak 
shining on the battlefield, 
love never gives up. 

The sky is most beautiful 
as it tackles the dark— 
when light bends, 
curving like the arc 
of red-tailed hawk’s wing. 
Daybreak or day’s end, 
the horizon pools 
with color oozing like fruit 
ripening on the branch. 
 
Though the shadow  
falls on the tree, 
when the shade 
lifts her wing, 
the leaf is still green, 
and tender, and ready 
to breathe, and 
bear light.