Hey, folks. I’m two shows into the Behold the Lamb of God tour, and officially in the Christmas spirit, whatever that means. I guess it means I feel a little more like a 10-year-old kid and a little less like a 36-year-old guy who has to fix the sink and the muffler. We’re in Milford, Ohio, and big, fat snow is falling. That reminded me of this poem about winter. Thanks for reading!
(From the Bench at the Bend in the Trail)
I know that I should cringe When I think of the muddy cold Of winter in Tennessee.
But today, with my daughter And her friend prancing In the brown grass yard, Crunching leaves, singing, Rosy cheeked and rowdy In the chill of Autumn, Refusing their sweaters, Drinking the dusk Like a mug of cider,
I look to the early dark Of winter with easy joy, Because those are the days We light candles, eat soup And keep the water hot For tea, or coffee, or cocoa With those crunchy little Marshmallows.
Those are the days We wrap ourselves In quilts my mother made To watch our favorite movies. Or we dust off the gameboard And look out the windows At the weak light and yearn For past (or future) graces,
For dying days like this one, Or days like last April When I felt against my lips How the new leaves On the maples were soft As a baby’s foot.
We find some peace In warm pleasures: In the smallness Of our heated house Beneath the vast Mountain of cold air Piled on us clear To the stratosphere, Trying to freeze us In our lamp-lit hollow, Our cleft of calm and longing Where we tend the fire: Memory of Autumn’s embers, Coming song of spring, Summer kicking in the womb.
Winter is where hope lies happy.