shawn parell: the work of wings

Each year, when the cold chalk fingers of deep December wrap our bones 

in frosty white, I, too, my love, slide under a downward lid of thickening thought - 

that all that blossoms also fades, and falls too fast,

and winter always comes. 

Yet, see up there, my love, my sweet? The last full moon of the year rests

grand and weightless high: an ornament strung by invisible hands,

perfectly whole and silvery bright. And there are stars in the sky 

that are also flickering light, and others on a journey that haven’t arrived yet. 

And these, too, my dear, will come. 

You wonder how to hold it all - the terrible darkness, the shimmering light,

this wild and wonder-filled circling of life. Well, this much I have learned:

that we must sometimes tremble in the cold (yes, my love - we must),

but also - and also! - we are blessed, we are bathed, in moonlight. 

-SMP