The Quiet Season
The bustle of the season is over:
The last farewells were said to family,
The lights have been stripped from the Christmas tree.
Now merriment cedes to mood more sober.
In the story, the shepherds came to see,
Three Wisemen too, followed the light then left
A new child born to a couple bereft,
Who, now warned, with their baby must flee.
Now is the time of bare tree and pruned rose,
Bulbs and seeds lie beneath the soil ungrown,
A young child grows up as yet unknown.
January, month of cold, dark repose.
All lie quiet, waiting in hope of Spring,
Watch to see what February will bring.
Big trees, old and heavy-limbed,
Stand stiff and solid in the wind.
Small trees, young and spare in parts,
Sway quick and lively with the breeze.
All stand separate, stark and alone
And each is given to itself.
All are exposed to the elements of nature
And each accepts its fated lot.
All trees come and go in time
And none is graced to stay forever.
All trees go without a whimper
And none returns but in succession.
Trees have their human counterparts,
There are the young, there are the old,
The lively pliant and the stiffly spent,
And all are fated to aloneness,
And all are in the clasp of time.
Like trees we should accept our aloneness,
Like trees our departure when it's time,
With grace and dignity, joy and thanks,
For protest is of little avail
And only gauges inner rift.
Actuality is depressing, possiblity impressing.
Death may be life's major thrust, it energizes.
Be governed by your hopes and not by your fears.
One treasures things, when things are scarce.
When things are plentiful, indifference becomes bountiful.
Deserved rest is sweet rest.
Each dawn is a new beginning.
Never walk when you can run.