Autumn Is Dying and Winter With Its Tongue Is Now the Rogue

Autumn is a bitter end. What does that mean it means winter has arrived. For us, Christmas is mainly a nightmare. The memory of broken families and broken bones and broken commitments of broken homes and moms and dads fills their antic hearts with dread. Dread fills any room with the land of leaves and attends them like an owl. Circling the fields they worked in all summer with the yawn of stars and the scale of sky. Extending your arms like none of it was ever true. They never loved you. They wished you dead. Who am I to maintain you might be wrong. You might not be wrong. What will snatch you up is that we need you now. You are needed. And we will catch this light together and keep Christmas in that folding past of grief where it so richly belongs.