we leave on our Christmas tree lights
and outdoor strings as well
hung in a swinging rhythm along the porch railing
blinking colors write notes to passers-by
in rattling old trucks on the hollow road below
across the notation lines of a musical score
to define the stillness in the night’s dark
around our hillside cabin of a cathedral close
give praise to soundless songs
subaltern murmurings of unknown languages
rustlings and flitterings of the smallest creatures on the forest floor

we pretend in southern California
at Kilt Lifter bar and burger joint
a gas log fire in the corner always in flame
a plastic Christmas tree with lights never doused
window air conditioner the illusion maintains
promising brief pleasures away from jobs and children
refuge of thin beef patties and cheap beer
this island of make-believe on land of little rain
while reality endlessly sounds of auto horns
and century freight trains on nearby tracks

over dinner Kevin Starr mentions
raising his two daughters in Catholicism
to experience the historic communion of prayer
that embraces all humanity
that rises above us all

rises even out of decrepit churches
near abandoned deep coal mines

miners pray before they descend by lift into the shafts
ride on empty rail carts to the mining face
black as outer space perversely how we describe
this universe filled with light to all eyes
lighted only by tiny lamps on miners’ hats
water through coal seams seeps
listen
listen
listen
to the drips
coal ripped away low ceilings of rock exposed
held in place by ½ inch steel plates bolted to steel posts
drilled two feet into ten-thousands of tons of earth
the mass above

pressing down upon wood beam bulwarks and braces
to draw out fuel for some humble family meal
of venison, pickled ramps, and beans
or perhaps for furnaces in Pittsburgh
to burn impurity from steel
whup
whup
whup
of huge ventilator fans
create meaningless noise where empty is

through the portal of our Christmas lights
New Year’s first sun pauses its flight
the vacant sky holds its breath—geese linger in flooded fields
hawks ride vectors not
nor crows feast in their brazen disregard
white-tailed deer rest on winter beds thick of mast
gray rabbits venture not from brush piles in deepest woods

smoke from our cabin rises into cold plein air
as lyrics semaphoric from ancient alphabets of praise
fill the moment’s empty chalice
with the possibility of love