The Dancing

I am in the presence of a thousand small gods in wild ecstasy
For one of their own gods has come to play
to fiddle for them a passion beyond music
and the trees keep the beat from the edge of the great circle
and each small god is the power of a hundred thousand flakes of snow
and none of them fall,
and none of them stop,
and none of them slow.

He writes

In a gentle, wandering epistle,
In a style that makes me think of a grey kitten climbing,
In the most welcoming and thoughtful way,

That my company is a blessing and our collaboration a privilege.

He writes,
As though thinking to himself,
As though he is trying ideas on for size,

That I could reflect and reconsider my relationship to Duty.

He writes that my poetic thought is not a reclining invalid, but could stand up within the tension of classic forms;
that the works of my brain with engrams and spreadsheets
and the works of my hands with patterns and lines and measurements
and yarns and calculus
could be integrated
with the yearnings of my spirit to fly
on an infinite wind
of heart-passions and words.

He writes meandering phrases and clauses and sentences

On a path which folds and turns and re-folds and returns to
the center of the labyrinth.

Twenty four years ago

She thought of how to angle the roof
and how long to make the eaves overhang
(and I checked the math)

And twenty three years ago
She set post to foundation
(and I did a great deal of “hold the other end” of things)

And twenty two years ago
We moved in to our beautiful Taigh Connlaich

And for twenty two years, on the shortest, darkest days of the year,
the sunlight comes streaming in every window,
full on
and hits the back wall
and covers the whole dark stone floor in radiance
and keeps our little family warm.

Our sweet house

I can feel her snuggling in smugly to December.

She’s a “one room cabin” — plus bathroom, plus the crawl space upstairs which we use as two bedrooms, plus the dark addition which we use as entry and storage and pantry and workshop, plus the light addition (doesn’t have all its walls) which we use for construction materials.

She’s a one room cabin whose welcoming reach exceeds her grasp.

She’s over the moon to know there will be celebrations here soon, more celebrations, more confluences of quests and calendars.

She’s warm, she’s bright. My house is ready for the holidays.

Not too early

At our house, we call it First Ups.
I got First Ups, I will say, and waking the house is as sacred as putting it to bed:

Dogs out, thoroughly patted, fed;
Good morning, sweet Taigh — good morning coffee;
Sometimes there’s needful recovery from the day before, so dishes, trash out;
This morning, it’s trash all the way to the road.

Sometimes First Ups is too early, and I’ve striven too much before light and I go back for Second Sleep.

And then one of the others thinks that they have First Ups and the sacred quiet of that time,
and the dogs get Second Breakfast.

Hello, December

The years have blurred a little.
I measure time by the cycles, where are we on this turning?
but how many of them have gone ’round… that is not so clear.

It’s gorgeous snow, though,
so that’s all to the good.

Snow makes a muffling stillness, calling me into the darkest days with
Rest herein.
Lookst, she says, I have made thee a blanket.

What bliss

To gather the clan
to give thanks,
to howl
and love.

To fast,
to feast,
to speculate
and to tell stories from the field about our speculations.

A weekend passed in good company
with only one incident of vehicle vs snow
and one clear time of “we will all go to our separate laptops to recover”
and a larder full of leftovers
and now quiet.

Quiet, aye, and warmer and fuller with more beautiful pages in my book of days.