The Slant of the Winter Sun

2021-12-25

"Much of the world has dug deep into the quilty warmth of bodies, wishing the winter to find its way away and let sleep wrap them in its insidious ways. And the glory of sun lies lost outside, wasted in lighting corner dustbins, and nooks where spiders glisten as anointed lures. Winter mornings are glorious. If only we get to see them. Ensconced in our blankets, our bodies held in the warmth of other bodies, the seduction of status quo is overwhelming. But the...

"Much of the world has dug deep

into the quilty warmth of bodies,

wishing the winter to find its way away

and let sleep wrap them in its insidious ways.

And the glory of sun lies lost outside,

wasted in lighting corner dustbins,

and nooks

where spiders glisten as anointed lures.

Winter mornings are glorious. If only we get to see them.

Ensconced in our blankets, our bodies held in the warmth of other bodies, the seduction of status quo is overwhelming. But there's too much which is lost even as we gain in our winter sleep. The winter chill is just a presence, benign, expected, there. Nothing can match the sudden bite of it's wind, the cold regality of things in a state of temporary rigor mortis, the infinitesimal beauty of a dewdrop freezing in its track - and how everything dissolves in front of our eyes as the sun rises. For embedded deep beyond in its cold touch, is the magic of it's warmth.

The winter sun often feels like a touch, evanescent, too gentle for a cruel world, too soft for impact, too fleeting to lay a mark. But it has magic. It's presence is alchemy. Everything opens up to it, everything raises its face to it, eyes closed, trusting it for rejuvenation, resurrection.

It floods the world quickly, looking in askance where it can't reach, lying silently beside dark corners to let them know it's here, coming as hope to those clenched deep into themselves.

Like love, it's presence is more consequential than its persistence.

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