Utinam sustineretis modicum insipientiae meae…
St. Lucy’s Day
What gives to us this day that’s bred from margins
Of calendar’s end? The clocks diminish:
Their hands are wickless lamps of witless virgins.
December’s weathers grip the land and push
The fog and rain across a cold horizon.
Yet embers resurrect and sparks emblazon
This fourteenth day of Advent. Darkness reigns
A little while, sure, but our glass contains
A castle’s local genius. Called Balvenie,
It builds its case and pours a million suns,
This sainted maiden’s day. Composed of moons
A dozen twelve, this canticle of honey
Candescence hints at hope – its glint reflects
The light that man has sought since “Fiat lux!”
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