by Abigail Hastings
We gather here by lambent light
in from the cool and rain — rain on rain on rain….
here to collect what light we can, shining in the darkness
— brave us —
but this is not the bleak midwinter — it is the barely winter
baby winter, just crawling to full height winter
To say the days will grow longer, the nights shorter
sounds like a great cosmic joke
a weatherman without a window
The light of day seems fleeting
work days start and end by lamplight.
And in this world of pinprick stars
where most light comes from phones and screens
We are asked to consider the birth of a child
and the possibility of illumination
of a different kind
One that carries us through
what might actually prove to be (heaven forbid)
a bleak midwinter
One that might give us something like hope
for a different day dawning
For what if the child born unto us
came to remind us that we too are anointed
if not with frankincense and myrrh
At least with the gold of wisdom and courage
so that we can — in spite of the darkness —
let our little lights shine.