Seasons Are like Seasonings

Seasons are like seasonings,
Each a complex taste
Amplifying appetites of
Souls with senses graced.
Open up your windows,
Nestle in your beds,
Scent the scents of wakening fields,
Gaze at golds and reds.
Revel in the tang of time
Even now when night
Ends too soon the caravans
Traveling towards light.
In gratitude for being
Now sing that all might hear!
Give the gift of merriment!
Sing of love and cheer!
Secular Celebrations Seem So Spare
Secular celebrations seem so spare,
Even with religious ancestry,
As though the brick beneath what had been there
Stood unadorned where stuccoed grace should be.
Old prayers and praises now sound insincere,
No longer fitting where but reason reigns.
'Tis the season, nonetheless, for cheer;
Scoured of mystery, mystique remains.
God aside, the dark still turns towards light;
Revolving Earth still tilts into the sun;
Each gift of breath still fills one with delight;
Each child is still all being new begun.
The miracles one celebrates are questions
Implying answers too remote to know.
Nor need one not have faith in the directions
Given those whose fate it is to go
Step by careful step towards what is so.
Seldom Do We See Trees Go Out Walking
Seldom do we see trees go out walking,
Eager to drink in the morning sun.
As they lift their long arms towards the light,
Still they must be rooted in the earth,
Of one soil and water, in one place.
Night is when the restless go out walking,
Seeking dreams that cannot face the sun,
Gigantic, pulsing screams of garish light
Reeling through the agonies of Earth,
Escaping the drab certainties of place.
Each winter there's a time to go out walking,
To see the hills washed in a newborn sun,
In the pale slant of late December light,
Neither pastel dreams nor solid earth.
Gently adrift, we settle on some place,
Sunlight walking through our patch of Earth.
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Blessings Are Not Only of the Light

Blessings are not only of the light:
Open up your heart to gifts of darkness.
None is offered miracles to choose,
Nor knows which gifts of grace one may refuse,
Imposing will upon an unwilled stillness
Eternally within each nub of night.
Miracles are also of the night,
Although we tend to see the good as light.
Reason is an oar that stirs the stillness,
Knowing but the diving range of darkness,
Unaware that what we would refuse
Sustains the miracles that we would choose.
Sing, then, of a gift you did not choose:
Each day the oil supplied for one more night.
To live's a gift few songbirds would refuse,
Holding forth like mad to greet the light,
Each a miracle distilled from darkness,
Little cup to hold a drop of stillness.
If only one could be one's drop of stillness:
Zero will, zero urge to choose,
Avidly serene in light or darkness,
Boat sailing without wind across the night.
Each would then be free to love the light,
There being no consent one would refuse,
Having savored all one would refuse.
Blithe Fingers Know the Psalms of Adoration
Blithe fingers know the psalms of adoration;
Often they play them on the flesh of light.
No hearing necessary, nor is sight
Needed to draw the lineaments of pleasure.
In despair only is there desecration:
Evil in pursuit of pain, not pleasure.
So may we not regret our loss of sight:
Eight days God gave the miracle of light.
Touch remains the road to adoration,
However much we miss the gift of light.
Grace is a slate-flat sea, a tranquil sight
After dense hills and fine-wrought pleasure:
Bleak and pure, too spare for desecration;
Rich as a thin dark line drawn with pleasure;
Intense as death, too immense for sight--
Even now, as love replaces light,
Loss of faith, not loss of adoration . . .
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