This short day, this long night we walk a mile through the woods. In the dark we hear the creak of maples leaning away from the roar of winter wind. A crescent moon dressed in gossamer cloud begs us to wait a few more nights for its blue dance on New Year's eve. I listen to each foot step crunch on snow. Ahead of me, the music of my son's voice sings about sled rides and glasses of milk.
At the end of our journey there is a pot luck feast abundant with sweets, wassail, a bonfire, ceremony and true, good friends.
And in that ceremony our ill wills join a Yule log on the bonfire and turn to embers dancing in the wind. We sing song and bang drums and revel in this yearly ritual of the longest night.
Blessed Be.
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