It does not take—although
it could—our breath away,
this warm November day
that should be dense and dark;
instead it gives.
The park is washed: a tide of light
leaves the day’s bright spine
exposed, the clear sun beached
upon the evening’s shore,
reposed where children each
reflect it, young and pure.
How is this day not old
and grey, but yet a bride,
lap full of wedding gifts,
all tied with gold, with light?
It lifts our hearts, too cold,
and too soon winterized,
to watch our children run
in ribbons through the gold,
the bright gift
wrapping strewn, untidy sheets of light,
across the afternoon,
not innocently laughing
jewels into our laps
until our arms collapse,
and we are warm. How can
this laying on of hands
of light, so late, be right?
What are we to remember
of this gilded not-november
miracle of days?
The oracle of praise
this day of Magi lays
abiding at our feet,
the reason given
for tidings of light,
light piled against
the trees and benches,
against our legs and feet,
against our thoughts of sleet:
God has no oughts, but gifts.
This is our tithe: let light
be more than interlude,
life little more than this—
delight and gratitude.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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