SOLSTICE NIGHT
SOLSTICE NIGHT
A blue lake
surrounds the house: snow
restored by
twilight to a version of its original self,
stippled
where wind and animals have crossed,
barred by
shadows of trees.
And
speaking of trees, shadows fly out from them
like
time-traces of late-summer bats, and return.
Everything
dampens down.
A sudden
stillness—
and the
earth’s tilt reverses.
Gradually
the first stars prick the sky around the moon’s pearled curve.
The last of
the year’s scrap wood is ready for burning.
Also a
twilight everything turns from:
stamping
our feet on the platform waiting for the train,
lined up on
the curb waiting for the bus, blowing on our fingers.
Young men
shaking snow from their collars
as they
pass through turnstiles and descend
with
everyone else into the tunnels and shopping concourses,
into the
wet stink, the grit and slush, blasts of heat and noise
over the
hornet-hum of earbuds and ringtones, ignoring
everything,
which is a form of love —
Arm in arm
a young couple stand in front of a window
brimming
with tiny confections. He pulls off her hat—
a sudden
stillness—
then
breathes into the gold waves of her hair.
And night
opens before them like a dinner napkin,
like a
carousel starting up, night as a state,
moonless,
starless, yet spangling. We’re burning
everything
we have. We’re cheering ourselves on.
(from The Rapids)