There is a crow in the far tree,
its tail flushing in the wind;
the sky is gray, trees barren,
light thin on this shortest day.
The tide will slowly turn
with better time to craft
what is to come.
I breathe slowly
drawing what I can
into the darkness,
letting the heart rest,
the mind relax.
There is enough.

Rain is falling on the window,
pinging the chimney
like bells in early light,
the old world turning over
with the weight of a river
daring to follow the dark wood,
each drop surrendering,
following the inescapable
as we all must,
turning like the world
with the weight of a river.

Life encircles like a necklace of fire,
unwilling that I should escape
or hide in isolation,
speaking through pain
and the mysteries of sleep,
each day like another
as if someone were dreaming.
Then suddenly the Self emerges,
ten thousand years assured.
Gently He awakes
yet His steps are like thunder.
The knife in my groin
is Him coming forth.
May the gods be merciful.
He is lightning.

Clear sky at dawn
with a waxing moon,
the stark branches
of winter emptying,
letting go of the green
for descent
into the holy dark.
Releasing faith
and its tribunals
for blessed peace,
as seeds soften
in the wet ground
awaiting the fire
of our surrender.