Cygnus flies West with Vega as her wing
man while Orion reclines in the East.
The Seven Sisters watch over all.
Bare branches scrape the sky as the pale
moon illuminates ghostly patches of snow.
Wispy clouds appear as Aurora pretenders.
Lights twinkling across the lake reveal
warmth behind distant windows through
the thin cold night air, beckoning.
Centuries ago, an ocean away, Saturnalia
fires would be lit. Story telling,
eating and drinking, giving gifts.
Catullus called it “the best of days.”
As the celebration slowly evolved into
Christmas, only the legends remain.
Standing in the cold night air I can
hear the reveling, see the fires and
whirling, twirling dancing people.
What used to be, moves in shadow at the
edges of vision. A turn of the head, it’s
gone. The sounds fade in the night air.