Under the surly skies,
as the frozen earth bends its back
to the wind-blown drifts,
something blossoms still.
As all miracles are born out of season,
in the emptiest of nights
or most soul-forsaken days,
so a child of promise slips in
like a whisper,
or a gleam of light,
when we are turned away.
It is a new year we have.
An ancient word is spoken,
hands touch,
we see the terror and the yearning
in each other's eyes--
and love, too,
as it kindles a flame for us,
a place to gather in the night.
Give us this benediction, Holy One,
by whom our years are named:
Make a fire of love for us,
Something to burn away our sins' debris,
Something to help us see what darkness hides,
Something to remind us of a Spring.

--Timothy Haut