Where winter lives
It wounds us in so many ways.
There are many among us
Who rush into it wearing the latest armor,
The ski mask, robbing us only of our recognition.
There are others
Flight bound in a variety of directions
To find the sun shine and warm beaches.
What, I wonder,
Has Christmas to offer them?
Their amusements do for them what others crave;
They have no need of hope.
So many souls are crushed beyond repair,
Each day a tragedy,
Each sleep a nightmare.
And then there are the rest of us.
Dull, and helpless to bring relief
To sooth the grief that seems to govern
More and more, the destination of our kind.
I dare wonder,
Was the hope that followed the plagues
From Pandora’s box
An antidote, or only
The last and most formidable of all?
The question, please, is simply this:
Is hope a narcotic or a cure?
I have always wondered thus,
And have no claim to any answer.
What little I do know is simply this:
Our origin was in a jungle deep,
From which we all did come.
Some need or spirit of adventure
Lured us to many places
Where lives found ways to live.
Caves shielded us in some of them;
Caverns, mountains, and deserts did the same.
Stories abound from all these places,
And all these times,
Of miraculous births, and wonders
Beyond our understanding.
In one of these places,
In one of those times,
From a very old story that promised redemption,
A living sequel was born
Out of scripture,
A testament to hope.
From the desert that sheltered this tribe
A Child was born to bring
Love into Law
And turn Hope into Love.