There is more than one way to mark darkest of night.
Newgrange in Ireland flooded with light.
A stone shed in sand filled with starlight and strangers,
holds oxen and donkey, a child-filled manger.
In Ohio the serpent mound coils away.
The Mayans in Tikal are still marking the days.
In Montana a stick thrust deep into the snow,
and for twelve days Yule fires will grow and will grow.
So the birth of the sun and the Son are the same,
crossing thresholds from darkness to light with one name.
Before glittering things that imprison our eyes,
all the paper and plastic and stuff money buys,
was silence and stillness, coldness and bleak,
the slow march of winter on two frost bitten feet.
Before the vice grip of new, fast electronics,
were birds tweeting carols, celestial phonics.
Owls in the twilight, frogs in brumation,
soft fur of hare, the bear’s hibernation.
Do not forget what this slow time is for,
a Light in the darkness, a knock at the door.
Welcome! Welcome! Invite illumination
to come in, to rush in!
Holy perturbation.
Motherlife 