A poem for the Winter Solstice by one of my favorite poets:

White-Eyes by Mary Oliver

In winter

all the singing is in

         the tops of the trees

          where the wind-bird

with its white eyes

shoves and pushes

         among the branches.

          Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,

but he’s restless—

         he has an idea,

          and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings

as long as he stays awake.

         But his big, round music, after all,

          is too breathy to last.

So, it’s over.

In the pine-crown

         he makes his nest,

          he’s done all he can.

I don’t know the name of this bird,

I only imagine his glittering beak

         tucked in a white wing

          while the clouds—

which he has summoned

from the north—

         which he has taught

          to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall

into the world below

         like stars, or the feathers

               of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,

that is asleep now, and silent—

         that has turned itself

          into snow.

Featured Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash