Winter Solstice 2013

As the days shrink around us,
it’s even more vital to reach out.

We stand surrogate for the sun,
its warmth and light on sabbatical.

Down on the gray sky pond,
ice grows like daggers.

Our ducks huddle, unsure
about the nature of things aqueous

and we are grateful for the snag, lightning-struck

two years ago, now warming our fingers.

A few post oaks have hung onto their leaves,

brittle templates for new foliage. They rattle

as winter keens a soprano song overhead,

and we whistle along, leaning into the future

so our feet don’t slip from under us,

leaning into the space of chill and silence.

Good thing we have red hens and brown eggs,

and new light reaching for June.

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What the Muses Leave Behind

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