Hurry homeward, through centuries of snow
To your home, your candles are now lighted,
And the trees are all benighted
By stars Silver and Green aglow.
The tablecloth returned to its table,
The berries are various goldens,
And moulting Moonlight emboldens
The mantel with candles and stable.
There is a way that parts,
Where all that’s good might end,
Where the river of time cannot bend,
As the infinite softness of snow might overthrow the hearts
Of trees and sedge; so I too succumbed,
Fell through eternities of snow-laden trees,
Punishment for crimes without release.
The tips of the trees thumbed
My stomach but could not have me saved,
Nor could the snow below save me,
Nor could all the children of the forest save me,
Their falling father. The falling was engraved
In his heart, until landing at this table,
Prepared with poinsettia for the seasons,
Healed for the lady of the forest’s reasons,
Beneath the icicles on the gable.
There is a way that parts,
Where all that’s good might end,
Where the river of time cannot bend,
But not within these winters’ hearts.
