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Every year,
The cranes
spiral away, singing,
and fireweed breathes
silver seeds into the wind,
and golden light slants all around.
Then the yellow blows
off the cottonwoods,
and darkness seeps in:
oozing from every horizon,
crawling across
the matted grass,
pooling under the spruce,
staining
the edges of our days.
Is it a restful
season? Sometimes.
Mostly it's just hard work, this darkness.
Solstice
comes.
We know it's
a turning;
We light our fires,
make our greetings,
we make ourselves hope--
But the thing is: the next morning, and morning, and morning,
we wake to the same stain-edged days.
And the sun makes the same low rolls,
like a tired whale.
Trickster
Solstice. Promising change,
delivering rain.
Still, the tipping point has passed;
now we have only light to gain.
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