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“Wind plays the drums of snow...
staccato taps,
crescendo off the roofs,
flourish of shuddering branches.
Ice snaps its castanets,
its daggers.
Atonal music of the darkest days
needs the most fearless,
subtle listeners.
*
Those strumming flamenco
fingers of sunlight
are a long time away from now.
Now we go comforted
in dreams and ceremonies,
flaming our star-speck candles,
raising our voices against that other music,
drowning out the forever
at night’s heart.
*
Look up! The wheel is turning.
The spectacular crowd of stars,
the tangle of dimensions
jostle for our attention.
Salute the birth of everything holy.
"At the Winter Solstice”
―
staccato taps,
crescendo off the roofs,
flourish of shuddering branches.
Ice snaps its castanets,
its daggers.
Atonal music of the darkest days
needs the most fearless,
subtle listeners.
*
Those strumming flamenco
fingers of sunlight
are a long time away from now.
Now we go comforted
in dreams and ceremonies,
flaming our star-speck candles,
raising our voices against that other music,
drowning out the forever
at night’s heart.
*
Look up! The wheel is turning.
The spectacular crowd of stars,
the tangle of dimensions
jostle for our attention.
Salute the birth of everything holy.
"At the Winter Solstice”
―
“And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon… Edward Lear”
― The Divine Circle of Ladies Painting the Town
― The Divine Circle of Ladies Painting the Town
