Welcome Long Nights

One of the gifts of being older and being outside the standard workforce with kids grown, is that I can often do things whenever it suits me. What time it gets dark isn’t an issue. I forget this fact until I have a conversation with someone who is not looking forward to the longer nights, darker afternoons, this seasonal shift that we cannot stop and the social construct of setting back the clocks so the darkness seems even earlier. 

I love the shift into the dark part of the year. Long nights suit me. They are what make it easier to hunker down inside my house, cook long complicated meals, linger at the dinner table, light the fireplace, snuggle up on the couch in front of a good program. I love how long nights settle around me, quiet and less demanding than the bright lights of summer evenings. 

On this All Saints Day, I am ready for the quiet. The darkness. The opportunity to create my own magic at home. I am ready for the refuge of winter, of staying where I feel safe in what has become a tragically mean-spirited world. Of course, this is my construct – safe at home. 

Darkness can hide many things. I choose to welcome it, light candles in it, let its soft blanket obscure my vision so I can rest.

That’s what winter allows us to do so well: rest. 

A good rest assures that we can rise again. 

To celebrate the return of winter, here’s a poetry offering from my chapbook, How We Learned to Shut Our Own Mouths. 

When You Ask Me What I'm Made Of

In this moment, I am made of fallen leaves,
geese v-ing across the sky, early snow.
My heart beats in time to wind that shakes
tree limbs bare. My breath mingles
with pine needles, damp earth,
woodsmoke, plants headed for slumber.
My hair tangles in the North Star,
a veil beneath the full moon.

I am made of owls who hunt
at night, trailing alto hoots along the way.
I am tree frogs on the side of the house, 
foxes sneaking into the backyard
to feast on rabbits. There might be
lightning. There might be crickets.

When frost descends, I am made of
flannel shirts, hot coffee, old mittens,
deer tracks around the bird feeder.

I am of the northern seasons, shifting with
the wheel of the year, gear by gear.
I curve to meet the cold.
I lean into winter's crackle.

photos by kcmickelson 2025