Friday, December 23, 2005
Each year, at winter solstice, I hold my breath. Will this be the year in which I lean too far out into the dark ? Will the tethers give and let me plunge into the open mawed fall frightful of absolute dark and absolute cold ?
The sun noodles away at a great distance. Gravity and light dwindle. In the impending dark, activity continues:
Ora pro nobis.
Raw, bloodless, dry and gaunt, I look for comfort midair.
My reach falls short. My fingers fail.
But something at the last minute catches me, and holds me fast.
Surround, I pray. And ground.