God rest ye merry, gentlemen
A wren alights, wing weary,
eyes the pilgrims of miseltoe,
tidings of toxic kisses,
the discomfort of nausea
of this 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 the 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,
and rest, little wren,
do not dismay, do not dismay.
Image from pixabay.