Most Decembers, I try and begin the festive season with poetry – to wean myself from chronic irritation with the counterfeit emoting and urgent commercial requirements of celebration which cause me stress instead of serenity. This year, however, has thus far resisted my efforts… so, I’m going to start over. Not with December — God forbid, this month has been fraught enough — I’m simply starting over with my… sense of the season. I’m waiting, open-handed, in expectation of something – whether wonder or quiet or curiosity or restfulness – to swirl and settle onto me.
Tonight is the longest night – and after will come First Light.
