Hidden in the earth
a seed waits, drinking darkness.
Conceived on a summer day
when the sun suckled the earth,
fruit of wanton flowers frolicking
with passionate, hungry bees,
a seed in the womb of winter
might feel lost and forgotten.
the earth is not a grave;
it is your swaddling clothes.
Trust in the darkness,
trust in your quiescent potential
that holds all in its nothingness.
Spring will come,
and the light of lengthening days
will coax the glory of God
from the seedpod
and beckon you to itself.
Apples ripened and acorns fell early,
confusing madcap squirrels.
Girls wore sundresses in November,
and the pedicurist polished
toes to peep out of sandals.
Where were the umbrellas and wool sweaters?
Our customary summer drought
lingered past its welcome;
even the rosemary and echevaria thirsted.
But beyond our fevered planet’s ripped cocoon,
the stars still proceed in their stately course.
We may defy gravity,
but the law itself remains unbroken.
Our earth continues to orbit the sun
at the same tilt,
and the days grow shorter.
At dawn on the winter solstice
sunlight will pour down the ancient stone passage
just as it did five thousand years ago.
Oh, praise the light that is beyond our reach!