the curious task of the living

The Curious Task of the Living

A thin skim of early ice

reflects pink, orange, purple, from sky to pond—

and pond to sky—speaking to us, it seems,

while we wait and watch for birth

even as our oldest is fading before our sorrowed eyes.

This world of God’s uses language

we cannot seem to voice ourselves;

though we almost recognize certain words—

and see them declared—

these shortening days of December.

There is so much we cannot know.

Though we want to.

Still—if we watch, slowly, and wait,

from fading to dim to dark,

and oh, illumined once more—

we will find hope.

That other birth and death,

told long ago,

is still the best we have.

Bethlehem or New England—

it’s all the same:

the curious task of the living is to wait.

And try to comprehend.

There is no hurrying it up. No quick solution

to the problem of longing

for what we cannot know;

for what…listen to me, please…

we will know—amazed—

when finally, one day, we see.

Kate Young Wilder