It’s late afternoon and this day, the first of December, brought with it the last of summering, all warm and wondrous. I am still wringing out what little warmth remains at the start of the year’s descent into the cold and darkening season by sitting on the screened porch and drinking in the near-half-full moon as she arcs behind Redbud’s burnt umber arms. The tree itself is already pulled into Mother for the duration. Come March it will stir as some ancient and eternal memory calls it to breathe and bud, exhaling after the long, languid night.
Bluebird alit above me this afternoon, dainty on the limb,
forcing me to stand, still as a stick, till she took flight in a golden light.
One must be still when present at a Holiness.
May, I, might I, remember her visitation when I wake in the night,
alone and wishing for the gift of wings, the airyness of flight.
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