Another poem from Advent 2009. But I've no new poems for you all, so hope this will do!
The cold is a hateful hand
scraping over skin to grip bone against bone,
and the soul is bruised, for lack of softness,
for want of a warming light.
Some days it seems the world is anger
and not forgiveness, that the day
has already slid into a bleakness and sorrow.
There must be a hearth, with flame and love.
There must be a day beyond this one,
when the divine speaks upon a bright spring cloud
and a little boy with bare arms
happily learns the shaping of wood,
the telling of stories.
—VH Wright, © 2009