The Language Of The Season: The Poetry Of Winter

As the solstice approaches, I’ve been reflecting on the past year and my ongoing efforts toward better health, greater patience and deeper presence.

Today the winter brings to mind

the nature of the curved line, the many ways

we measure time,

the drawing of a deep breath, the shape of the sail

just before

another holy exhale. And there, an aperture

begins, the signature

reminder the body is a home

and beginnings and endings are the same as a nonce form,

or a summer storm

or even a season being born— not an erasure but

a departure from the norm.

Perhaps the most famous solstice poem in the English language is Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods in which the narrator pauses to watch the woods fill up with snow: “My little horse must think it queer/To stop without a farmhouse near/ The darkest evening of the year.”

That moment of pausing before turning toward reflection seems to mirror what the sun seems to do at the moment the solstice occurs.

But the winter solstice isn’t just a time the sun seems to stand still, it’s also the moment winter actually begins as Earth’s north pole is tilted farthest away from the sun. It therefore also marks the moment our days begin to lengthen.

Before the Gregorian calendar became our universal way of measuring time, the winter solstice was the naturally occurring start of the new year.

Civilizations across the globe for thousands of years have taken great pains to build monuments which make sure we pay attention to these natural markers of reflection, these opportunities provided us for reflection, renewal and greater wisdom.

These natural wonders transcend sect, cult, religion, nationality, race, class and other reductive demographics, reminding us of our shared experience as sentient creatures on Earth — sometimes simple, sometimes complicated and always walking the path of mystery.

Reflecting on my attempts toward deeper presence this past year, I notice it’s been helpful to really limit my time spent online consuming novelty, shallow entertainment and far too much bad news.

I have been counting my regrets:

Bacon, Facebook, cigarettes.

Anger, bluster, laziness.

Fearfulness. Indifference.

Lousy lovers. Stupid bets.

Things that shouldn’t be confessed.

I’m still not dead.

It should be said

I haven’t finished counting yet.

I actually quit smoking a few years ago and quickly learned that when one vice is released, others are waiting in the wings to step in and become suddenly prominent — and similarly tempting.

Just for today I’m stooped

in gluten and steeped

in carbs, swamped in gravy

and buttered in lard— I’m a slathered

in-salt tequila bard

whistling past the graveyard.

And obviously I rely an awful lot on humor to keep me from taking myself too seriously. Surrounding myself with people who are similarly drawn to humor goes a long way, too. Auden once said that among the people he liked he could find no common denominator, but among those he loved, he could: they all made him laugh.

I recently found myself saying that of all the fruit we grow here in the Grand Valley, the pear has the greatest sense of humor.

There’s something pleasing

in a pear. It sits there,

leaning and uneven,

plumpish and speckled

everywhere. I swear

every pear

is laughing while

it’s sitting there.

Laughing pears notwithstanding, there’s no denying the world can be a difficult place and keeping our own affirming flame burning can sometimes be a real challenge. I’m reminded of Edna St Vincent Millay, who said, “Beauty in all things — no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it.”

From there I recall a different kind of renewal I experienced a few years ago.

Twelve days in hospital:

surgeries and complications various

humiliations, mysteries

and weepy conversations, blood-soaked

devastations, pain-filled

bifurcations — wan and reduced

to providence and nerve,

I have emerged

with these four words: how can I serve ...

The more difficult the world appears, perhaps the greater the imperative toward the creative impulse, toward more empathetic living, toward more meaningful service.

Just as last year at this time I resolved to walk more readily with Patience, this year I ask Wonder to walk beside me, to be one of my brightly shining teachers, companions and guiding stars.

You might have noticed that personifying the virtues is something poetry loves to do — as do all the arts— as well as all religions and spiritual practices.

I leave you with a poem about wonder personified — and with my warmest wishes of the season.

WONDER

Wide-eyed she’ll find you every time.

She will not steal your heart or soul.

She will not say: away from here

the sea rocks gently in its bowl,

the moon’s the ghost of Gilgamesh

floating toward the silver pine,

the love you lost is dwelling with

the peregrine and goldeneye,

and by the bye,

deep in your chest, a well exists.

She is too busy changing form.

Her hand upon your shoulder lifts.

She will not take your world by storm.

Originally published in the Winter 2024-25 issue of Spoke+Blossom.