the curious task of the living

 A thin skim of early ice

reflects pink, orange, purple,

from sky to pond—

and pond to sky—speaking

to us, it seems,

while we await a birth

even as our oldest is fading

before our sorrowed eyes.

This world of God’s pours forth speech

we cannot seem to voice ourselves;

though we almost recognize certain words—

glory, enduring, more precious than gold—

and see them declared across the skies

these shortening days of December.

But who among us can discern

such things? There is so much

we cannot know. Though we want to.

That other birth and death,

told long ago,

is still the best we have.

Bethlehem or New England—

it’s all the same.

The curious task of the living is to wait.

And try to comprehend.

We watch the sky

from fading to dim

to dark, and oh,

illumined once more—

wondering, as we do,

if one day, we might finally understand.

Kate Young Wilder