Down the last long nights
toward the winter solstice
a way opens through the dark,
lit by longing that gleams,
a path that is hope for a path.
This wound is not a flaw, but gift:
my hunger not for morning,
not again, but at last,
a changed Creation,
a being only hinted at.
In the dense solitude
that heals its arms around me
I am not alone.
The Mystery draws me closer,
pulls me forward.
O Darkness,
how could you want me so?
O Silence, how can you
enfold me, consume me
with such tender delight?
O Longing, by what grace
are you my light in this world,
by what grace am I yours,
this silence in me another’s voice?
O Hope,
dawn rising in me,
how is it you shine brighter
the deeper my yearning,
my tears like stars in the night?
How is it my merest prayers
near despair
are your birth?
Dec. 1, 2014