Winter Nativity

The year has finished with its decorations.
The hills stand bare now,
their bells quiet after Christmas.
Snow settles on the roofs of the village
and the river moves on
under a sky the color of pewter.

It is the time when everything feels suspended—
birth close to death,
as though the two had agreed
not to argue for a while.

In the stable display at the church door
the wooden child lies in his straw.
A lantern burns beside him.
Someone has arranged the animals carefully,
their painted breath forever rising.

The mountains look on
the way mountains always do—
patient, unconvinced.

The story is familiar enough:
light arriving in darkness,
hope where winter seems final.
But even here
the shadow of the cross is already implied,
though nobody says it aloud.

Every cradle carries that knowledge.
Every first cry
moves quietly toward the last breath.

The year itself seems tired.
Fields lie stiff with frost.
The old women at the shop counter
count the names that will not return this spring.
Smoke from the chimneys smells of pine and candles,
half-remembered prayers.

Still the child remains there in the straw,
a promise people repeat
even when they are unsure why.

Perhaps that is what birth always means:
the decision—never quite spoken—
to go on with time
knowing how it ends.

Between holidays the village quiets.
Roads freeze over.
The inn closes early.
Men read newspapers by the stove.
Women stir the fire
and think of those who are gone.

Outside, the stars look fewer
than they once did.

Yet something in the cold air
keeps the story alive:
that life begins
exactly where endings are easiest to see.

And that love—
if it means anything at all—
must learn to walk
through winter.