|So do we
mark the turning of the light,
Each turning imperceptibly within,
As dawn comes to the coldest depths of night,
Sweet silver hint that day will soon begin.
Our darkest hours are those of greatest cheer,
Nor need we faith to feel the moment's grace,
Still holy, though the mechanism's clear,
Gift of time transcending time and place.
Reason sees no reason for rebirth:
Each moment is an equal place to start.
Even so, we recognize its worth:
The ritual redemption of the heart.
In us there yet remains the ancient awe,
Now overlaid with litany and law,
Grateful to the gods for seasons sure,
Sustained by love unseen and worship pure.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon