Solstice

Get up from your chair at the kitchen table,

pull on your boots, and step outside

into the crust of the snow

while there is still a little light left.

Stand still, and listen

to the sound of this briefest of gaps

between night and night.

The air is thinner today,

as at the peak of a bare mountain

where a lone hiker triangulates with the sun and the moon:

three points in cold space.

Do not think of days to come,

rolled out long and thin like dough, cluttered with shapes and voices.

Instead, face the waning light of this dense, unformed day,

where the shadows on the snow fall backwards

and only whiteness stretches out ahead.

Behind you: a thousand cups of coffee,

a thousand rings of the phone and impatient glances at the clock.

Behind you: that summer night on the porch, that thing she said,

that question, that aching sorrow.

In front of you: unbroken snow.

Do not cast your heart backwards.

Instead, think of this day, this hour,

this blink of light between sleeps.

This day is not a cloud or a block of marble:

there is no figure hidden within it.

Watch the long shadows fade into the snow,

love them, and let them go.

And when the light comes again,

think outwards in all directions,

like a stranded sailor guessing towards the shore.