‘Twas the night before solstice, as
long as can be.
Temperature falling, from 13 to
3.
Generator felt eager---“Please
plug me in”---
certain the ‘morrow be cloudy, again!
The cord-wood were nestled, all
snug in the box,
with visions of lit match, their
energy unlocked.
‘Twas my sweetie and I with spirits
to mend.
We’d lain long hours. “Would this night ever end?”
When through the east window I
spied such a gleaming,
I sprang from the bed. “Perhaps I was dreaming.”
Out of the bedroom, through hallway
so dark.
I stumbled to south windows, hoping
for stars.
And yes! There they hung, same as summer eve.
The lion. The virgin. Even the farmer, Bootes.
When what to my east-roaming eyes
should appear,
but a rim of purple-pink. “Could a
real dawn be near?”
When a thin beam of yellow put
clouds on the run,
I knew in a moment it must be
the sun!
Brighter than new snow, his great
ball now forming,
I swear that he shouted,
announcing his morning.
Come tritium. Come deuterium. From deep in my core,
smash now together and unleash
your storm.
Rise to my surface, a million
years and one.
Then dash away! Dash away!
Dash away photon!
As dry grass that before the
prairie fire does quiver.
My arms sprouted goose bumps and
my shoulders did shiver.
When onto the ridge-top his gold
paint he brushed
all the creation fell frozen and
hushed.
And then, through the window, I
felt on my cheek,
the touch of his brush. “Ho my!” I did peep.
With his bundle of joy flung from
afar,
he looked like an angel, the most
generous star.
His light how it cheered me, as I
turned my head.
And there stood my sweetie, just
climbed from her bed.
I reached for her hand, but the
sun found it first.
Then her eyes shone like sunbeams
and her laughter did burst.
“It’s the sun!” she did
shout. “How could this be?
On the shortest of days? Through the coldest of breeze?”
Then we stood hand-in-hand as this low
yellow ball
---the life force of our home---began
doing it all.
Generator fell silent. He wouldn’t be needed.
Because panels of solar grew giddy
and gleeful.
As photons from smashings a
million years old,
sent electrons from our yard and
into our phones.
Then up from the cellar we heard
such a whirring.
“What could it mean?” The pump must be stirring.
Hot water! How glorious. From the rising sun’s power.
By noontime we’ll surely be caressed
by a shower.
Then he wrapped us in warmth, as his
long-angled beams,
came streaming through windows and
under the eaves.
The cord-wood stayed nestled; no
reason to strike,
a match to the tinder, we’d have
heat until night.
Speaking no more, he magnified his
work,
raising our spirits, on this
winter-side of earth.
Laying his warm finger, on the old
ice of our hearts,
he leaned into the west, preparing
to depart.
At last he slipped beneath the
rim, where both day and dream abide.
Behold! he tossed what paint
remained, upon the canvas sky.
Until he sets at last on us, we’ll
recall his parting words.
“Night is but a shadow, the shadow
of the earth.”
