The Dying Time

At 4:35 pm I cannot see my to do list unless I lighten the house
Now, house alight, I stop "to do-ing" and resign myself to night
This is winter

Snow, in all it's shocking purity, fell in inches, then in feet
We rejoiced until the slush took on the character of its cousin, mud
This is winter

Christmas, the anticipated, came, unafraid of skinny budgets or icy roads
And then Christmas left.
This is winter

***

This is winter, the dying time
My fuchsia, the hummingbird coffee shop of last summer
Is gasping for warmth

This is winter, the dying time
My friends (of the stay up till 2am talking sort), to our joy, were near to marrying one another
Friendship withered, though, and died, I think

This is winter, the dying time
The occupation I loved most (aside from being a mom, of course), God asked me to lay down
And when I laid it down, He took it away.

***

Malachi, the oracle, wrote to a people who lived in the heart of the dying time
The priests didn't care, the marriages were faithless, and God didn't matter
Malachi decried the winter, but he also spoke of spring

***

While my fuchsia fades
(No better for the nasty fall it took while the pot was transported from one patch of kitchen sun to another)
I sketch my garden plot for Spring

My friends
(Who still bestow all their hope on Christ, and even more so now)
Are free to follow desires He has placed on their hearts, for university or home or other friendships

Though my spirit is not free to teach, it is free to write
(Pleasant thought: one must have a spotless house in which to tutor, but not in which to write)
And free to make forts out of sheets and chairs to play with one who will soon be one

I think this dying time
Is useful to my soul
Indeed

***

"But for you who fear my name,
the sun of righteousness shall rise
with healing in its wings.
You shall go out
leaping like calves from the stall."
Malachi 4.2

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