Christmas, 2016
by Paul Hooker
Darkness,
moonless midnight,
too soon to see the way
so path and peril are as one;
silence.
Silence:
words left unsaid.
Too soon to know. The tree
of knowledge bears little fruit in
wisdom.
Wisdom
not in choosing—
too soon to be choosing—
but in waiting to be chosen;
stillness.
Stillness:
not in rising—
too soon for glorias.
This time is his, and the gift of
darkness.
Shape and Substance 
wow, so spare; words and images parceled out like bites of bread served with neither butter nor honey. a monk’s meal to nibble as the candle gutters.
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I thought I’d try writing a cinquain as a kind of discipline–force myself to say what I wanted within a restricted number of syllables per line. Interesting exercise.
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