It felt like each of your dreams died in the winter,
buried deep beneath frozen earth, and you stood alone
in the cold til you forgot what they looked like.
A part of you stopped believing that anything means anything.
We are just puppets here in God’s great game. We play our roles and fall in love or fall apart,
and all the while the world’s a burning explosion. Stare deeply into your glass of wine.
There are no answers.
Yet, even yet, snowflakes waltz from the grey sky—old shroud of a dead day,
weeping new fractals that spin in sheer exuberance, etching a message into the air:
the world dances on an axis of grace, and even in these frigid moments lives beauty.
The world is a puzzle missing pieces, a constant contradiction:
joy and sorrow, sorrow and joy, and you are tired,
but despair is a tunnel driving underground; don’t stay there.
The sun won’t hide away forever; it loves too much to kiss the cracked ground,
coaxing the crocus to appear again in royal purple, breaking the dead earth;
this is alchemy. This is enchantment. Myth, perhaps, is true.
I do not know why this old world spins into long winters with such cold nights.
I do not know if light requires darkness or joy requires pain.
I am not sure the world hangs in such a balance.
But I want to believe:
that light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it;
dead dreams rise anew;
love is not wasted.
I don’t think this poem is very good, but I am not having a very good January, which justifies bad poetry. Secretly, I hope you think differently. If not, that’s fine; we agree.