White Christmas
Forecasters generally consider a white Christmas to be an inch of snow on the ground or an inch falling that day. —news item But along the river bottoms, snow found no place, When we went walking there After life, abrupt, stillborn, fell apart. Your flustered hands gently wrestled With the chill in the folds of your overcoat. Frightened doves, they could not bear to be held, Holding to themselves In a barren nest untouched by tenderness, Yet wanting to fly from flesh to flesh. I knew you as one who lived in minor chords; Your falling apart was only the latest note, Inescapable as the ache that comes with snowfall Disintegrating a forest’s edge in a flurry of silence, The nudging ache that waits forever In newborn fields of untested whiteness. And I knew your latest sorrow, Like the winter twilight in your eyes, always Tinctured by stars and snow. Setting your hopes on a white Christmas, You put a quiet faith in the world’s poor weather And stood to hear the rat-scratch of cattails Nervously tapping the crusted river’s edge, Where you scanned the overcast skies with eyes Dark, damp and beautiful as a forest floor Always an inch away from drowning in joy.
--Joseph O'Brien
Joseph O'Brien lives on a rural homestead near Soldiers Grove, Wisconsin, with his wife Cecilia and their seven children. He is a freelance writer and hosts the online radio program Cover to Cover for Catholic Radio International.
