It is a winter afternoon, the hills
are cold. All day starved birds
have eaten of our bread, and now
go freezing through the night.
It is a sullen sky waits for
last light to stutter out.
The one cloud above us
has left no room for stars,
not even the holy star
children are told of.
But for me it is not the death
of any year, nor hint of death
of man or god that holds me.
It is for me as if the world
smiles at us, saying, here,
take it, as if the sun were alight,
as if someone above weather were giving us
another lifetime, whole, together.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 10 Number 5, on page 33
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