There is an ancient meeting ground
where winter flames burn warm and low
where a story told without a sound
reminds us of a time, long ago

frost crept silently across the land
when the bell was made by its chime
there was a swirl in our glasses sand
an eddy in the current of time

candles were made by their flames
the desert turned to sea
we had no faces and no names
when the frost spoke silently

the heat from the candles’ wicks
mirrored in the hourglass
muffled the clocks certain ticks
in a holy eternal mass

when I read from pages of winter’s lore
without a name and without a face
as an effort for peace in a world of war
we painted a spiral staircase

during the winter hushes
we made the staircase a home
without paints or brushes
we remembered a winter poem

and as soul and earth were wed
the lines were painted and they read:

“it is in the songbirds’ calls
and the breath of the deer
it is in the silence of their footfalls
the sign that winter is near

in the stillness of the quiet night
sacred prisms crafted in snow
reflect in the candlelight
the soft and holy glow”

words like logs upon our backs
a burden made a blessing
we walked a story with our tracks
each step before confessing

we’d walk with duty and innocence
from the staircase and candle to the wood
to gather logs to make a fence
to make a wall and call it good

like sunlight in a prism
the divisions were made quickly
in a natural destined schism
a statement of individuality

but when we called the walls between our own
each taller than the last
we noticed that they’d grown
and that we couldn’t see past

we’d begun to forget
we began to tire
joining hands though we’d never met
we remembered the staircase and fire

within the walls the candles glow
was still bright upon the stair
we met sheltered from the snow
to speak of the honest just and fair