Waiting for Yule

December morn
untainted with toils yet to come,
lays bare a canvas
fresh for my palette:
a quiver of southern breeze,
a wash of palest blue,
a daub of merest cloud,
a brush 'gainst solstice sun,
a peppering of winter swallow's song,
and a smudge of hope that
the only overshadowing this Christmas
will be the Father's awesome stride.

Push back, push back
the encroaching thoughts that dull:
the lists, the musts,
the hits and as many misses,
the ache of the disconnects,
could-have, should-have beens,
the cares of what might sting,
the breath held too long,
the march which must resume,
the wait still unrequited,
the sigh that drains the soul...

I sit, still as frost,
contemplating what could come;
my only sound a whispered longing
for a guiding hand
as I paint again
a tale for the day.