On the day after Thursday, the light will start its slow
seep back through the calendar’s gaps to our plain city
dressed this time of year in homeliest shades
of putty, oyster, moth grey.
A collaboration between Horus and Skadi,
solar advent delivered in a frozen paragon of chill.
Temperatures will plummet into polar realms
while we shiver, re-illuminated.
Perhaps we’ll also be mantled with snow,
gifted with something we forgot we wanted,
this perpetual tangle of absence and resplendence
sparkling on our weary shoulders.
We’ll insulate, examine the year’s profits and losses
chart the intersections of luck and misfortune
while drunk on the mead of sunshine
lured by the opium of grief.
This cold heaven reminds us that to glow we must
begin in the dark. The relentlessness of winter
lasts just until you find the replenishable furnace
of your open heart.
Take this light whose brilliance is only intensified
by its icy amulet. Weep over the myth-grey horse
who will never carry you over canyon and meadow
again. Exalt, that he ever did.