© Vivianne LaRiviere

In the tempered layers of seasonal changes and murmurs,

Stark nakedness wandering,

Beneath the vagrant shivers

Of winter’s dawn, crisp, yet nurtured, yet begun,

With angels, or song, or the new born voices

Of humanity, we wait.

For promise.

Echoes of our deepest memories,

Revived once again,

And yet never forsaken,

But space provides us with newer and newer possibilities,

And aging reminisce.

And somewhere in between, we hope.

And with angels, or song, or the new born voices

Of humanity, we wait.

For promise.

Is there ever a true time,

Or dare we request

A truer time,

When solstice murmurs of dark nights, and stories,

And the longest of dreams and sleeps?

And what is it we are called to resolve?

Within the depths of the forecoming,

Of hibernation?

And with angels, or song, or the new born voices

Of humanity, we wait.

For promise. Lest we weep.

Paradise turns cold, and the earth is chilled with

Damp and frost, and frozen.

We shudder, and anticipate.

For as we chant with the angels, or song, or the new born voices

Of humanity, we wait.

For promise. Lest we weep, in sorrow.

And behold in shadow,

Lies the gift of promises unfolding.

The stars and wise men tell us so.

The women prepare. Faith never ceases.

Beckon your cries, deep in the marrow.

Chant with your angels. And wait.

Humanity is giving birth. One day.

Today. The stars and wise men tell us so.

The women prepare. Faith never ceases.

And as labour begins,

And the Earth moans and groans,

Through the laborious suffering

Of birth, and darkness, and joy,

We will wait no longer,

As we wait through the moment, we wait for no longer.

Solstice is upon us.

Light your candle.

Board your cloud.

Be wisful, and full

Of heaven. And Promise. And wait.

May the presence of Divine Love fill you.

With those moments of forever, forgiveness and the purity of Being.