Solstice

Winter Solstice

On this, the longest night, 

I nearly utter, "Not yet, too soon, not now.” 

I'm not ready for the apocalypse of light, 

that asteroid of fire and life, 

to hurtle into my fine-grained silence 

to crystallize these course-grained words too soon.  

I haven't used up my dark days 

as well as I know I could.  

I haven't gone deep enough 

into wells of memory 

shadows, stones and core.  

I made friends with darkness, 

once I finally acceded 

to its purpose in my life,

once I learned to sink in - 

whether as a yield to accommodating sand 

or hard winter ground - I now allow gravity,

my weighty grave, the absence of light,

and I give in, give up to the depth, 

my spine relieved in darkness, 

packed in layers upon layers 

of self, sedimentary and cold.  

Once I discovered the value of humus, 

steamy black compost, 

how it feeds and readies me, 

I became fond of the smell of darkness

like the horse barns of my youth

piss and sweat 

leather and harvested grain. 

I no longer need to quilt darkness 

with the eternal promise

and anticipation of light. 

I like darkness as it is - 

coal, carboniferous rock, 

the furnaced compression 

of all that once lived.