Toward the Winter Solstice – Timothy Steele 1948
Although the roof is just a
story high,
It dizzies me a little to
look down.
I lariat-twirl the cord of
Christmas lights
And cast it to the weeping
birch’s crown;
A dowel into which I’ve
screwed a hook
Enables me to reach, lift,
drape, and twine
The cord among the boughs
so that the bulbs
Will accent the tree’s
elegant design.
Friends, passing home from
work or shopping, pause
And call up commendations
or critiques.
I make adjustments. Though
a potpourri
Of Muslims, Christians,
Buddhists, Jews, and Sikhs,
We all are conscious of the
time of year;
We all enjoy its colorful
displays
And keep some festival that
mitigates
The dwindling warmth and
compass of the days.
Some say that L.A. doesn’t
suit the Yule,
But UPS vans now like magi
make
Their present-laden rounds,
while fallen leaves
Are gaily resurrected in
their wake;
The desert lifts a full
moon from the east
And issues a dry Santa Ana
breeze,
And valets at chic
restaurants will soon
Be tending flocks of cars
and SUVs.
And as the neighborhoods
sink into dusk
The fan palms scattered all
across town stand
More calmly prominent, and
this place seems
A vast oasis in the Holy
Land.
This house might be a
caravansary,
The tree a kind of cordial
fountainhead
Of welcome, looped and
decked with necklaces
And ceintures of green,
yellow, blue, and red.
Some wonder if the star of
Bethlehem
Occurred when Jupiter and
Saturn crossed;
It’s comforting to look up
from this roof
And feel that, while all
changes, nothing’s lost,
To recollect that in
antiquity