I meet this winter without celebration,
as the man who was dying, but now lives,
greets the ants that pass through his kitchen
in narrow, undisturbed rows.When the child with her crown of candles
comes to my door in her white dress, singing,
I watch the delicate notes disperse in pale
cold light, like snow.
Yes, I posted this last year. Until I write a new Santa Lucia poem, this is what you get. It was such a delight to have these folks, with their candles and sweet voices, show up at my door a few years ago.
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