White-Eyes
BY MARY OLIVER In winter all the singing is in the tops of the trees where the wind-bird with its white eyes shoves and pushes among the branches. Like any of us he wants to go to sleep, but he's restless-- he has an idea, and slowly it unfolds from under his beating wings as long as he stays awake. But his big, round music, after all, is too breathy to last. So, it's over. In the pine-crown he makes his nest, he's done all he can. I don't know the name of this bird, I only imagine his glittering beak tucked in a white wing while the clouds-- which he has summoned from the north-- which he has taught to be mild, and silent-- thicken, and begin to fall into the world below like stars, or the feathers of some unimaginable bird that loves us, that is asleep now, and silent-- that has turned itself into snow. THE WORLD BY JENNIFER CHANG One winter I lived north, alone and effortless, dreaming myself into the past. Perhaps, I thought, words could replenish privacy. Outside, a red bicycle froze into form, made the world falser in its white austerity. So much happens after harvest: the moon performing novelty: slaughter, snow. One hour the same as the next, I held my hands or held the snow. I was like sculpture, forgetting or, perhaps, remembering everything. Red wings in the snow, red thoughts ablaze in the war I was having with myself again. Everything I hate about the world I hate about myself, even now writing as if this were a law of nature. Say there were deer fleet in the snow, walking out the cold, and more gingkoes bare in the beggar’s grove. Say I was not the only one who saw or heard the trees, their diffidence greater than my noise. Perhaps the future is a tiny flame I’ll nick from a candle. First, I’m burning. Then, numb. Why must every winter grow colder, and more sure? THE SHORTEST DAY BY SUSAN COOPER So the shortest day came, and the year died, And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world Came people singing, dancing, To drive the dark away. They lighted candles in the winter trees; They hung their homes with evergreen; They burned beseeching fires all night long To keep the year alive, And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake They shouted, reveling. Through all the frosty ages you can hear them Echoing behind us—Listen!! All the long echoes sing the same delight, This shortest day, As promise wakens in the sleeping land: They carol, feast, give thanks, And dearly love their friends, And hope for peace. And so do we, here, now, This year and every year. Welcome Yule! TO KNOW THE DARK BY WENDELL BERRY To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight, and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings, and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.
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