God rest ye merry, gentlemen
A wren alights, wing weary,
eyes the pilgrims of miseltoe,
hears the tidings of toxic kisses
from these pearls of creamy parasite.
Every winter solstice is a pall bearer
of frost that lends the darkness
a glitter still, and looks for gods
and devils and merry men
with a wind that paces and searches
the bright sharpness of fields.
It unrolls its mists
across unsettled flocks
who twitch with a new vigilance -
any joy is as fragile here as a small bird
cast astray by a storm.
I can't rejoice and I can't pray and
I won't kneel --
hold tight to your branch,
I sing -- sing anyway, sing loud,
and do not dismay, little wren,
do not dismay.
Image from pixabay.