Winter knocks on the door, speaking
The language of crows and hungry foxes.
In darkened houses, small lights appear
Of lamps and candles and captive flames.
Standing by the windows, we watch
The moon drawing its white face
Full round, on the blackboard of the sky.
We wonder: why, why this earth,
This grain of dust, rotating without obvious aim
Into unknown, unreachable spaces.
A bitter wind, full-cheeked, blows
Ballooning snow clouds over the land.
The world shivers, repeating dire predictions:
Hurricanes, floods, diseases and death.
What answer can we find, can we give
As centuries of disasters unroll their dread?
A Child, born from age to age
Radiant with ever rising life
Under a brilliant star.
