The Magical Realism of Life of Pi

The Magical Realism of Life of Pi
Review by Margie Taylor

Saturday, February 1, 2014

A Winter Poem by Ulrich Wendt


Winter at Birch River. (Photo by Ulrich Wendt)

A Song for the Winter Solstice

By our friendly little river, by gently drifting snow
The pine log sparks and crackles, birch burns with steady glow.
Our cozy little cabin, the welcoming painted door
Obscures, like snow, what went before.

And somewhere bells are ringing,
And the stars are shards of light.
You may still hear an angel singing
If you listen with all your might.

Once was all bleak winter here, trees cracked with the cold
Flint hard hunters followed deer and, unlike us, did not grow old.
Flecks of blood and human bone have vanished like their trails,
The desperate cruelty of their age no longer marked in tales.

And somewhere bells are ringing,
And the stars are shards of light.
You may still hear an angel singing
If you listen with all your might.

It’s hard now to imagine when such bitter winds did moan.
Among the spires of verdigris, great halls of warm grey stone,
 Soft-cushioned men make laws and rules and say they love the poor.
And few feel even vague unease they may have lost the spoor.

And somewhere bells are ringing,
And the stars are shards of light.
You may still hear an angel singing
If you listen with all your might.

So darling come sit beside me. Our fire is still burning bright.
We’ll listen for angels singing on the longest winter nght.


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