Solstice is the saddest time
burnish what is left of mine
leaving stubble dried and thinned.
There is no light, there is no faith,
all they promise turned to fluff
tossed among dry stems like wraiths
of flowerheads gone black and rough.
Solstice is the saddest time
when what remains can only look
at what will come, then resign
itself to turn away, overlook
processes that find and change
everything that breathes and blooms
without a chance to rearrange
the details of impending doom.
Solstice is the saddest time.
The sky is black, the rain is thick,
and slush is raising the waterline
in freshing streams to drown us quick.
The gift of love we felt like sun
on shivering skin and puckering soul
is farther off and
overrun
with pessimism in control.
Yet as the growing days unfurl
the winter’s grip on what is green
and happy in the birthing world
beneath the places frost has been
so deep we cannot know by sight
but must believe--the soil remembers
how to carry warmth and light
to roots it keeps like blinking embers.
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