by Molly Swan-Sheeran

The leaves are bruised and gnarled
by the turning down of the light,
and we are slapped silly by wind and rain.
The onset of the dark time,
cyclical, explicable, relentless,
despised or welcomed.
The damping down of the life fires
for the long night of the year
must happen
tended to by the unseen hand.
What can we say, what can we know of that,
Unseen Hand?
Only that is does come,
and,
with its tender tucking-in,
assures us that what is turned down
rises to the light again.

©Molly Swan-Sheeran

Posted in Poetry |