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Solstice sunrise from Glastonbury Tor, Somerset, U.K.
(Photo by Sarah Little-Knitwitz via EarthSky.org)
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A sticking snow slowed us in the dawn
of the higher latitudes, our shadows shifting
as the sun swept low over bare trees,
the day's lone music from the valley trains,
the steel stove ticking, dividing the hours
with firewood and ash, no one in sight
but the wind, the tall white furious wind,
weather and stars passing through
again and again.
Warmed by coffee in a china cup,
we waited at the window,
souls swarmed through us
as the wind died, and we heard,
when the night became glass,
the wild cries of swans in flight,
moonlight and cycles and time,
waiting to hear the rain in new leaves,
the wind in the great green crowns,
that music and swaying,
Regaining peace one vision at a time,
deer with the mist on their shoulders
coming to drink from the spring,
the sun going down big and red
behind wooded hills, all the little hoofprints
in the mud at our feet, our work finished,
our thoughts free to run, grateful to have held
each other for awhile, content in the longer light,
calmed by the big red sun, adrift
with the fireflies that constellate the night.
—A compaction of poems from solstice to solstice, 12/22/18 to 6/20/19.
