A Blessing for Your Longest Night

by David Horton

Pay attention.

The small counterweight:

the cold orange, gold in your palm.

Light begins here, in this humble stillness—

the simple work of waiting.

You know the path.

Do not hurry the counting

or disdain the slowness; the earth itself

pauses until the moment is full.

Grace breaks the air:

the gingerbread's humble geometry,

the dark spice of truth. The scent of pine,

a wild cathedral,

reminds you your own soul

is earthy and true.

Claim the necessary warmth.

Let the bite of cinnamon and peppermint

be a small, fierce joy.

Look to the candle.

A single, unwavering flame is enough—

the clear promise that pierces

the dark you carry.

Claim the colors that insist:

the deep quiet of royal blue

where the Holy rests;

the vital alarm of joyous pink.

Let the red and old gold remind you

of the wealth of grace

already given.

The scattered lights are small answers

to hidden fears. The traditions—

the vintage paper—are the stitches

that mend the years.

Listen to the murmurs of songs.

The season is damp and dark,

but you are not forgotten.

Be here, now.

Be pierced with light.

And be at peace.