Today's poem is by Jehanne Dubrow

Winter Solstice
       

I'm receiving warnings on my phone,
wind advisories and a freeze
that chills the plants to little blades.
It's the longest dark of the year.
And maybe this is my comfort,
that even the evening reliably returns.
On the news, they're talking of a town
where everyone places a hanukkiah
in the window, hundreds of branching arms
uplifted in their light. In the town,
everyone is a temporary Jew,
all equally endangered by leaflets
left in a mailbox, the old insignia
painted on a wall, hooked cross held
against the icy backdrop of a moon.
I want to be surrounded by good
neighbors. The dark continues.
I touch a candle flame to the wick
of another candle, the fire doubling,
now less alone. I want to believe the story—
there's more illumination than we hope.
I spin a top. I slip a piece of chocolate
from its foil, coin of bitterness
and sweet. Some fears are perennial,
kindling in their constancy. Tonight,
I won't close my curtains on the dark.

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Copyright © 2024 Jehanne Dubrow All rights reserved
from The Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission