by William L. Norine
“The Holly has a blossom, as white as any star...”
White freeway. I’m watching how the floating snow makes patterns on the windshield glass; watching how the large, exquisite flakes jewel to melting almost with regret;
so slow to go--they blend together in a wash of mist to wipe away with another dwindling year. (They tell us nothing’s lost; it only changes form. Why then do we miss things so?) Dad is that your winsome call in flight above the lonesome snow,
swirling in the winter woods and trees of sixty years ago? Do you discern these carols in some midnight clear? Each pass- ing day I’m closer to the truth, yet see only from a wearied distance or darkly through a windshield glass. If only I could make things out; bridge that transit between faith and sight. On a darkening hill, a twinkling tower bulb, red as Holly, slowly blinks its light.
Originally published on the Ancient Paths Facebook page on December 14, 2019.
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