The frigid moon opens a casebook of wonderings.
Frozen reflections and frost-writing on windows
overshadow the foreshadowing of the coming
springtime: Resurrection and white lilies.
On the fence near the shore of the gelid lake,
icicles cling tightly to chain-metal links
like a stronghold only salvation can break.
Swirling flurries and sheets of fading light cower
behind trunks of sleeping trees. A straw-filled crèche
in a cold cave sits on the mantle, the Baby living for
crucifixion and even the cruel loneliness of the night
the Son and the Father spent reasoning and knowing
in prayer. The Christ candle on the Advent wreath
burns with radiant joy, Light before ecclesiastical time
leads to a season of sadness. Why not forty days
of Christmastide? Why should my tree not stay up
’til Mary and Joseph present the gift of Jesus
in destined compliance in Jerusalem’s Temple?