It was the day before Christmas and mist
formed over the East Branch of the Westport
River, a rebirth of water from heat
and cold, evaporation that morphed to
condensation. It sets the stark report
of the foreground, a procession of posts,
absolved of duty and now obsolete,
save to pay tribute if tribute is due.
Like wise men, the posts point to the mystery.
The Church borrowed its holy day from pagans,
a bright feast to honor the longest night.
Past service, past belief, winter casts them starkly
and hints, in its mildness, of its raging.
The fence posts and their abandoned history
remind me to search for an austere light
when age fails and transcendence comes, darkly.
After a four decade career in the law, first as a trial lawyer then as a juvenile court judge, James Cronin in retirement returned to earlier interests: teaching, literary studies and writing. He has published two books of poetry: World of Shadows (2018) and The Mortal Angels (2024).
