in the wrong line

sheafrotherdon reminded me of this poem yesterday.

The Shortest Day

So the shortest day came, and the year died,
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive,
And when the new year's sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, reveling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us—listen!
All the long echoes sing the same delight,
This shortest day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, fest, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome, Yule!


— Susan Cooper
from The Shortest Day

(NPR did a lovely little story a couple of years ago about the process of turning the poem into an illustrated children's book.)

Eating Apples

Every time I eat an apple, I think
of my Uncle Buck eating apples,
or rather I think of my mom
telling me how he ate them,
my quiet uncle who loved horses
and who cracked open
the fresh wounds of our hearts
when the cancer claimed him
so soon after it claimed his brother,
my father. I might have seen it—
Uncle Buck eating lunch
in the shop office, air conditioner hissing,
the smell of oil and gas
laced with sweet apple
as he ate skin and flesh,
his eyes closed as he pushed on,
down and around and down,
biting through the green crunch of core
and the hard black seeds
until all that remained
was a slim brown crook of stem,
a comma that once linked fruit to tree.


— Carrie Green
originally published in Salvation South