We modernists know, it was NOT in the bleak midwinter
No matter what Ms. Rosetti wrote.
There were no parkas, no ice melt, no chains for the camels in Bethlehem.
Bleak, it was though..
Bleak future for his countryfolk
Bleak father Jairus
Bleak sisters Mary and Martha
Bleak mother, that widow of Nain
Bleak
Even now it is bleak outside my window and
sometimes inside my heart.
The ice falls, clattering on the frozen limbs
that crack and groan under a weight so wrong.
Limbs were not meant to bear such a burden
All creation groans tonight.
Branches broken, bowed, barren
Ready to be thrown on a fire: no blossom, no fruit:
Bent under burdens undeserved.
No self-will can melt it
No way to wish it away
But to wait, to wait
Cold, and more cold.
Do not rush too soon along this Advent journey
to anesthetize the wait with artificial light
that beams from the broken world
Bear the unbearable just now.
Wait.
Live with it a while.
The green blade riseth, yes.
But not till the moaning, the ice has lived out its life
And the crackle of the wind in the winter trees
Has turned, after the night, into a resurrection song.
So, for now, trees, hear the beauty, somehow, that is the bleak moan.
Its lament, so deep a dirge, is also the soundtrack for our journey towards eternity.
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