Sometimes During the Holiday Season
Jill Breckenridge, Becketwood Member, from The Sometimes Poems
especially today, with 26 inches of snow
on the ground and more coming, snowflakes
fall so slowly, I can greet each one
by name. John refers to his car, buried
in the parking lot, as “The second igloo
on the right.” Everything wears a white
snow coat except for the busy squirrels
and rabbits, already outfitted with fur,
plowing through white, and I’m wearing my
warm down North Face jacket as I praise
the joy of red, white, and green lights
sparkling in evergreens on lawns and houses,
and in others, 8 Hanukkah candles ready
to be lit, one at a time, the Festival of
Lights, celebrating the miracle of oil
that burned steadily for 8 nights and 8 days.
Out my window, I see over a dozen robins
land in a tree, puffing up their orange
breasts. What are they doing here in winter!
Like our ancestors, way back when, I want to
build a huge fire and, holding hands with
loved ones and strangers, dance around it
to celebrate that sometime soon, this snow
will melt to feed the land, rivers, and lakes,
and we will celebrate the gift of longer days
and more light, and everything green will store
the strength to break through the earth’s hard
crust and rise, arms full of food and flowers.
Footprint in the Snow
Susan Foster, Becketwood Member
Perplexed I ponder
Filled with wonder
There are no others
How can that be?
I love a mystery.
Snow Before Dawn: Saturday Night
Stephanie Gordon, Becketwood Member
We wait and we watch
snuggled in our ivory throws
one bright candle gleaming at each window
across the quiet courtyard.
Aimless snow flakes in slow motion
fill the air with droplets of liquid snow.
We wait and we watch
the hour of midnight strikes.
The Morning is Quiet
Linda Back McKay, Becketwood Member, from The Next Best Thing
As white is soft, as touch
is stone worn smooth
As love is wordless
as wind-blown pines
As generosity leans
convex and concave
As the world rewards us
for playing along
Such quiet, this scent
of creaking hardwood
This language we almost
This white blow of snow
this ghost of clarity