Solstice

 

And then you look up

stilled

by sky

 

suspended like a winter bear

beneath snowy tree

asleep at the darkest reach

of an earthen tide.

 

Be here

just as you are

 

tilted like the smoky light 

that rolls across these mountains,

leaving pools of embers 

on which the season

hangs

 

until that shift — 

fiery,

imperceptible,

almost synaptic — 

 

as if the bear

without waking

had turned over,

a move so minute

and so massive that 

the trees, their work 

dendritic

turn the sky a new shape

 

and the earth

meeting its winter’s tide

is in a moment

lit 

with such clarity

 

that you stay,

just as you are — 

rooted, like a wave,

or a sleeping bear,

swept up by a branch into 

that bright sea.