Frost

As I gaze past the frost-kissed glass of my window I see a world overcome with ice. It weighs heavily on the boughs of the pines and oaks that line the back of my yard. It is as though the wind has no effect on them. They are stagnant, and serene. It is as though life has been drained, left for a warmer climate. Such is the feelings of my heart. I feel covered, crystallized. As though a needle on a tree, engulfed with darkness. When will the warmth of morning come for me? I wait for the morning light. Light is purpose. I grab for anything. I hear questions asked of me. Question of light, and what I will shed. Yet the questions are dulled, ladened with strategy. Is my light practical, will it stand, and all I want to do is shine. Night is a veil, death in its opacity, demise, carried on its wings. The moon is a light, a mirror of the sun, the Son. While waiting for morning, I find myself in mourning. Which is the life I shall choose. A life of light or night? The answer is simple, light is the only path for a candle, yet this world is cold, and it is so hard to keep this light lit. Give me air O moon, that I might breath, and morning O Son that I might burn bright. A lamp post on a mountain. Shine

“on a hill stands a cross still shining fair as the sun when the night has turned into day, and still it shines, bright as day.”

-excerpt from “Morning Light” Phil Keagey