The wind mere angel whisper on this
cold December day; virgin snow
spreads soft across the fallen
acorns and forgotten leaves.
Sparrow cocks her head to listen to
the solemn silence ringing through the
emptiness of trees; Squirrel stands upright
with folded paws, reverent beneath this
white cold falling from the skies; the world
is washed; the snarls of pain are hushed;
hushed, too, the noise of anxious rush to
prove our worthiness to be alive;
stillness blankets shrubs and rocks,
the railing on my deck,
our fears and greed as well.
It will not last. I know.
Gray slush will soon collect
along the streets; grime will
cling again and crawl beneath
our skin, and war and hate will
clang across the world; but in the
quiet of this winter white, I stubborn
light my Advent-candled hope; await
the Child who will one day unfurl this
pristine interlude of peace until it
fills the whole of space, the whole of
time, beyond the reaches of the farthest star.