Winter can’t make up its hoary mind.
It throws its sleet; it tosses its snow.
Why can’t it be a little more kind?
Winter can’t make up its hoary mind.
Can’t it just toss one wintry kind?
Instead, it huffs, sneezes and blows.
Winter can’t make up its hoary mind.
It throws its sleet; it tosses its snow.
It’s the new year according
to the calendar, and from all
the well wishes and enthusiasm
heard from the talking
heads on the evening of the
last day of the now old year,
such sounds sound more
desperately optimistic
than hopeful. They are
both good with one running
more deeply as a stream run-
ning rapidly to the sea — the
other a veneer with a thinness to
the raucous guffaws with a hint
of urgency to singing auld lang
syne. Can we get through the
Advent candles and twelve days of
Christmas, the nine candles of Hanukkah,
the seven candles of Kwanzaa, the glowing
lanterns of Ramadan all blazing without
plunging to the darkness of the bottom
of a now dead coral reef of life ex-
tinguishing such faint light?
Can we, with patient hope, live
in the thin places between the
physical and the spiritual — con-
tent for now -- seeing, touching,
tasting the appetizers of the
eternity
of it all?
Time
will
tell.
*with appreciation to James Pennington for his comments
on "thin places."
bobdahl 