Winter Solstice I've always envied bears who, fattened on fish, wild honey, and fruit, hibernate in their dens all winter oblivious to discomfort and eruptions of feeling. It would be nice not to be cold, not to deal with the layered bondage of clothes, the heaving of heavy snow, and the bone-splintering, abashing slips on ice. But being human, ever the natural antagonist, I must live unnaturally awake while the earth sleeps, resting before the resurrection of spring. So, in the dark I sit tonight with a spark from the black sky of stars burning on a candle, exposed and golden-warm. Not much against so much frozen night, but enough so the darkness does not overcome it.
Charles Lewis writes poetry as a way of knowing and unknowing, as prayer and meditation, to share language and feeling, for fun, and because it’s necessary.

Love the spareness of this poem and the simplicity of the sentiments. Thank you! -Jane
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Another beautiful selection. Thank you.
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Next storm, I’m huddling with that bear.
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