The road that lies below lies deep and still.
No moon to light the snow. The sky is clear.
Alone, heads back and arm in arm— We’re here!
In disbelief— We hardly breathe— But here!
So spills the light of Heaven into sight—
Illumined, rising, falling, shifting grace.
Upon the starry sweep of Christmas night,
In ribbon-folds of light and dark it sways
Above the shepherd pine and hemlock choir.
There— This night! The sky! The lights!
The stars! The fire!
Above! Across! My God—
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
I recall having seen the northern lights only twice in this lifetime. The last was while driving east on an early winter evening. I turned my head to look north where the mountains above Vancouver are lit along the ski run down Grouse. There, and above darker more distant silhouettes, the northern lights hung in unexpected splendor.
Western Canadian poet, storyteller and sometimes shit disturber. First published in Sand Patterns, Prince Edward Island, in 1974. Up and down since then. Several chapbooks slouch on bookshelves marking "the sudden grey of decades passing," following a first humiliating rejection, in person.