It was when my fingers froze together 
around the hope I thought I owned,
when I saw the distant fires entangled

in the barren branches, when I pressed up 
against the heaving side of the winter sky
and laid my cheek along the fresh-fall breast

of snow, when I let the last leaf fall from me,
vivid as a final garment sliding free, blushing
anew at winter’s kiss. Then, when I counted

the gleaming trophies on Orion’s belt. Then, 
when I breathed my last breath and saw the 
fading wisp of it rise, my soul, into the night.

It was then they carried the flame I could not bear,
a fragment of the coming Dawn, the herald
of a mighty Name. I let the fire of pressing forward 

flicker out, and fell like a seed into the arms of the One
I wished to own, passing away. An old man dies 
on the eve of winter, to awaken at the Word.

Poem by
CHRIS WHEELER
www.chriswheelerwrites.com