Poem: At the Hinge of the Year

The air is full of crossings.
Smoke unravels into the trees,
and I can almost hear
the slow footsteps of what has gone.

The ground softens,
and the roots speak in a darker tongue.
They tell me: the dead are not elsewhere,
only quieter,
folded into the hush between breaths.

The wind smells of apples,
of endings that were also beginnings.
Somewhere a candle refuses to die,
its flame bowed but unbroken—
a small persistence against forgetting.

Tonight,
I do not ask the veil to lift.
I only sit beside it,
hands open,
listening to the old year
turning over in its sleep.

Thank-you for reading.

Remember there are many paths back to God.

Follow your own path,

Brenda Marie