A poem I wrote many years ago, re-written slightly. Originally about Advent, it works well with Solstice, too.
A cold dissatisfaction oozes poison into hours
of solitary boredom that once tasted summer’s warmth
and rejoiced in sensate ponderings of heaven’s languid clime.
Now prayers lie frozen on my lips these bitter, ashen afternoons.
Glossy catalogs and magazines lie orphaned at my door,
but I will not adopt their cheer
nor bed th’insouciant whoring of our winter holy days.
So melancholy punctuates the numbing march of time
into that darkened solstice of medieval isolation —
propelled into the farthest arc, forsaken by the sun.
Thus emptied into neediness, to famine and despair,
I search the yawning pitch-smeared void
and there behold a piercing Star!
No gaily burning candle nor twinkling hearthside glow,
this is the hard-edged hopefulness forged pure and straight of cosmic might,
arising out of nothingness toward Life’s salvific land.
My soul, a silent universe,
lies naked in its beam,
a prayer more fragile and profound
than any summer dream.