[This is an entry in a group of observations from nature that, arrogantly following Pascal, I have called Pensées, the word suggesting thoughts but also the flowers, pansies. What could be finer?]
The Bleak Midwinter
The sky is a gray veil behind which
the midday sun is trying,
against nature, to set in the south.
Safe in my warm Ford, I still feel
the trepidation that must
have visited the ancients who,
unable to consult Wikipedia and
assure themselves that the golden
chariot would continue driving across the sky
day after day without end,
offered sacrifices to mollify the god.
My father, spirit crushed by the shortened days
and dying light,
perversely relished the solstice.
“It can’t,” he’d say, “get any worse than this,”
adding that every day from here
forward is a little longer.
A cause for celebration, never celebrated.
Merely endured. He died when the days
were nearing the nadir
and was buried on the solstice
in cold rain and a chill wind.
That fate would not have shocked him.
These darkest days are a stern reminder
that we should buck up, carry on,
trust an eternal pattern that has always
returned the light to us.
And while we’re about it, be kind,
share others’ burdens, and,
not ourselves born to save,
at least be of some small assistance.