winter solstice

It is the solstice:

the long dark

the sharp needle of frost

the hanging pause.

We are suspended

in the nadir of the swing.

Somewhere in the heavy dark

a bristlecone branch creaks

grass edged with lacy white shivers

an icicle falls, shatters, clinks faintly of glass

an impossibly perfect snowflake floats

down

down

down.

We turn inward,

wrapped in flimsy husks.

Shadows creep up the old walls

find the same marks

pause

our breath catches

and then

one tiniest of turns

imperceptible

the slightest groaning shift

and

here comes the light

waking the bristlecone's sap

undressing the grass

smoothing ice to pool

rounding the snowflake's points.

Our eyes twinkle in the light.

Now the days are getting longer.

Oh for more days

more long, long days

days to fill

just how we choose.

Put some sunbeams in that one

some cool sand and rough wave

some raw cello and

some tears you can't stop because your belly's full of laughter

and here, take this hawk

sitting just overhead,

showing you his sharp hooked

point of a tearing beak,

calmly contemplating you below,

make sure you save some room for him.

So many wonders and treasures to find a place for

a time for

a day for

and soon

the sunrise will fire the sky past the telephone wires

just a little earlier

and already

the pink clouds of evening unfurl under the caught branches across the street

just a little later

and tomorrow

you and I

we will be blessed with a few more moments of waking

a few more glorious instants

of presence.