That part of the year which is both uncompromising and forgiving: the last days of 2012. My chosen images are those of the blackbird: his sleek, black feathers absorb all variations of color, which he then gives back to the world in an overflowing song. He can pierce the densest silence, drag from God praise for the lowest, the humblest. And then there are my fine friends Wind and Rain – the one bearing the fruits of the year like a ghostly offering, the other weighing them up and letting them fall in unpretentious fashion. There is still that little space of time before the clock chimes twelve – time enough to dance and win from human hearts what hearts are made for.
Blackbird, truest friend of days which burn
with bejewelled fire, absorbs all color
in his black robes and pours them out in song.
Whose ears have conscience that they can hear?
The wormhole is so small and space is grand -
that jutting beak, those crowning flights of song
can pierce the densest silence, drag from God
praise for the lowest, the humblest. Whose ears
have tuned themselves to this that they can hear?
And once more wind is ghost of the year,
fecund apparition ripe in flowers
and fruit and half-remembered flavors.
It leans on rain’s companionable arm
and talks of empty earth, of colors drained.
Yes, resolutions crossed like swords this year
and all that they achieved was noise, cold noise.
The fruit and flower of love is first in time
and last to weary of the world’s pale face.
‘But dance with me, dear friend, beyond the moon -
before the clock chimes twelve there’s hearts to win!’
Best wishes, today,
© Landar 2012. All rights reserved
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