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Posts Tagged ‘winter solstice’


 
 
A week before winter solstice,
we explore in our room a spilling
of low-angled sun, a deep pool
of light the darkness has not
yet devoured. Our bodies,
pale pilgrims traversing the night,
wade in, then dive, surprised
by this warm, naked hour.
Our hearts have been wrecked,
but we yet survive, washed up
like flotsam on this radiant
shore, this place we’ve known
thousands of days before.
But somehow, today,
this bright measure of sun
helps us more truly arrive—
sometimes it’s the unremarkable
gifts that keep us alive.

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I sleep. I sleep and sleep and sleep
like a bear, like a snail, like a bee,
I sleep until the sun finally slips
above the riverside cliffs
and enters my bed like
a lover. I do not open my eyes,
but the light and warmth
slide into me anyway
as if all of me were waiting,
waiting to be entered by light.
And I have been waiting—
which I might have denied,
snuggled in deep as I was,
drowsy and night-drunk,
certain of my joy in the dark,
but oh, such a way to wake,
discovered by the light of a star
as it kisses my face and strokes
my skin, offering to give me everything
if only I open more.

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One of the rooms

in the longest night

has an empty chair

and an open book—

and in the book

is an empty page

full of light—

if you read it

long enough

you might forget

what an hour is,

or night,

forget all stories

besides this one,

older than scripture,

where everything

is possible.

 

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