Winter Solstice

The altars are thrown down; the stones are gone
To build His holy walls and guard His light;
Cathedrals, oubliettes to blaze His might:
The many gods are swallowed by the One.
The celebration feasts of meat and wine
Are now the fodder of more sober folk;
The mistletoe an osculators' joke;
The nights diminished that the Son may shine.

Pity this sordid exit of the year:
Poor kidnapped feast, disfigured holiday,
Now tinsel-blinded 'mid the salesmen's bark
While prosperous and pious are astir.
The days will brighten, hot upon their play
While I deplore the shrinking of the dark.

Muskie Butsell