Frozen Liturgy
Snowfall,
frosted filigree, shaped
yet ever changing.
Overlay of silver hangs
on bare-boned trees.
The night is at prayer,
a shimmering worship as
peace falls, solid as darkness.
This is jewellery
to wear on the soul,
a litany of snow
memorized like
icy rosary beads, slipping
past guilt to kneel
in the clean revelation
of grace and forgiveness.
A fitting adornment for the season’s
long sanctuary of darkness,
winter-lit by the lacy candles
of rest and redemption.
Fear of Surgery
now I know
about anaesthesia
the loss of control
as sleep seeps in
no finger crookable,
no eye winkable,
no thought thinkable
no one ever finishes
the countdown
I dodge the eerie approach
of this small death, fixed on
one fading but certain conviction
This is just an impostor,
a tiny little practice run, perhaps,
not at all the real thing.
I cling to resurrection's hope,
knowing that eventually,
numb with relief
at my narrow escape,
I will emerge
from that phantasmal anteroom,
able once again
to crook, wink, think …
still myself,
counting down
©2012 Deborah Lawson
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