SOLSTICES

There were hemlocks in the rain-green valley,
clubs of insects meteoring the lake,
and blue eaves under every bush of sunshine.
How exacting summer was.

Beyond that,
a woman walked out on another cold year.
Like a pane of ice held to the light,
she disappeared from the window,

then from that life.
Into the hours came the children
shuffling home through shadows
until one looked back, and began the orphan call.

Darkness rises, sometimes the sun falls.
A man clips wildflower heads by the tracks for a living.
Our lucky old sun turns on us and certain days
rolls far north of heaven.

Night's a bone press.
But think how the skull used to cock in the daylight,
the eyes dream openly.
Some sleep alone, beyond the sing-song ways of children.

First up the lake tower on solstice eve,
a woman looks for the children.
Far past our tropic of this or that,
polar baths overflow with sunshine,

then pitch.

First published in Arts and Letters