Lighted Windows

Lighted windows and tall Victorian houses togged
out in tinsel do not a Yuletide make, and in this
moment, I would trade them blithely for a hillside
dressed only in snow and glossy ice, for the good
clean scent of cedar and pine, the whiskery shapes of
trees standing proud and alone along the ridge.

This Yuletide self longs for rocks and hills and coves,
a cold and solitary wind whistling hollow along the
heights and depths and embracing me as kindred,
naming me friend and fellow wanderer, welcoming
me as a wild sister, one long lost, now found again.

Light the fire upon the hearth, hand round the cider,
tea and cake, and dream of perfect snowy days deep
in the woodlands, away from streets and idling motors,
make of yourself a conduit for all things good and true,
a spirit at once wild and tame, a small flame of grace
and hope dancing among the crumbs and empty cups.

(. . . . written this morning as I stirred another batch of Florentines, made cider punch and tea and put together platters of snacks, fruitcake and biscuits for unexpected guests. I love this season, its colours, shapes, smells and textures, the Yuletide trees, candles and surprise guests ringing the doorbell, but there are times during the holidays when the deep woods beckon in their eloquent stillness, and it takes some effort on my part to resist their sovereign tug.