Sister Solstice

awindow

 

Sister Solstice

Down the hall

Late,

The light

Turned off,

The bedroom

Dissolves

In a night moon

Slanting through

The gated blinds.

There are different

Kinds of darkness.

Always is the wonder

If color lies

Where,

Imagination

Sees in shadow,

The forms of everything:

The bookcase here,

The dog on his bundle

The Tanka over the bed,

The chair over there.

And

The play of illusion,

When one wall seems infinite

Because a night light

Creates the world,

Lying just behind

A shimmering

Dimension.

In early dawn,

The moon is gone,

Lost in swirling fog—-

Which beads,

Drops of water

On the garden branches.

Fading forms

In mist

Link what

Comes behind,

To

What swiftly

Ghosts in front.

The ground,

Wet,

With mottled Bay leaves,

Playing gold

Among berry twigs,

Beyond the death of frost,

Still shows life

Where mice and rabbits are quiet.

Until,

The red hawks

And feral cats,

Swoop them out.

When Solstice arrives

All is ice,

As freeze contrives

To stop time

Resting,

If ever so quickly before dawn

In stillness.

Remembering,

I hang her four,

Pure-white-paper

Snowflakes,

Cut,

With concentrated

Precision

By tiny scissors,

On dark-green bows.

That

She is ever lost

In the freeze,

In the stillness,

In the very perfect

Point of Solstice,

is,

For her,

Never

Knowing Spring.

 

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