Solstice

The day dies young in winter, into the

dusky cold… o go inside it says,

make fire!

I am

declining,

remaining, out

beneath the indigo.

In this

descending,

thoughts and moods

laid low, as waiting, as dormant, the

silent length of nearing night is

hard, a rasp on the cheek, a

bite on the ear, but serene at the

sight of sharpened starlight. Venus is a

diamond and moon swells

luminous on game trails along the

ridge. The zenith of

existence is a

becoming fullness of this

life given. Its counterpart,

a pouring out of this life

given. For this, the wild God, in

and above all that is, spins the

earth while we notch our time into

seasons. The first to rise, ascend,

immortal against it all. The last, to walk

empty in the way of unity. We stop and

turn as does the sun into

the equinox, the paradox. We

seek to know what is most

ineffable. For we, each one, will at some

appointed moment, step out into the

winter night, stand still, know little.

There is a light of truth one can see

only in the dark.