In the Bleak Midwinter

In the Bleak Midwinter

by Christopher Kuhl

These are the darkest days.

Hazy sun, night skies dominating

The hours of these holy days,

The Earth turning down

And into itself. My body

Is a hollow core,

Implacably cold. The fire

Cracks, losing its luster,

Nothing more than brittle air.

Breathe, breathe:

We have grown too old

For whispering, but too old also

For crying out. The mother

Gives birth to nothing but

Wind. In these last

Few moments before death,

We do not know how or if

To say goodbye. All the universe

Pulses, as do we: Let us

Close our eyes, take one more

Breath, and dying, awake

In the land of the cold east wind.

Christopher Kuhl credits his father with his love of language. (“What’s big and red and eats rocks? A big red rock-eater.”) He has published extensively, and written three books, and has just completed a collection of poems surrounding the Holocaust, entitled Every Day I Will Rememberdue out in 2019 Christopher’s writings explore the interactions of the human, spiritual and natural worlds. Stratton Press, with whom he has a three book contract (which is going to keep him off the streets), has created a website, at He is also active on his Facebook author’s page, Christopher Kuhl Writer. He hopes to blog more regularly on his website; this public proclamation may shame him into really doing it.

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