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.