the bare axle.
ingathering of consciousness, a cold
and involuted reminiscent turn
that reoccurs each solstice-time; you yearn
for comfort - yet concurrently you hold
cold counsel with yourself - the lies you told
about the time that’s left; that candle’s burned
to nearly nothing, guttering. you’ll learn
what slender bones the foliage enfolds.
through knots and knuckles on the barren limbs
upraised in frozen agony, you mark
the corvid forms - but focus farther still;
the constellations. distant seraphim
that glint (you once imagined) in the dark,
convulsing in the tilted axle’s chill.
the spark.
diminished flicker, distant astral flare,
a shuddering among the frigid spheres;
recessional - the wending of the year
toward inner dimness, isolation. stare
at wavering penumbrae, glumly bear
accumbrance - battle disconcerting fears
that bitterness is winning; conjure cheer
against the solstice’s abyssal glare.
an ancient image stirs; a tiny band
of travelers who wrestle in the dark
through biting cold - abrasion as of bone
on bone - across an unforgiving land
accompanied by nothing. vacant arc
of vault above; a spark among the stones.
christmas island.
a cool descends, like morning on a hill
where hidden households stir and cooking-smoke
augments the mist; with unexpected croak
and cough, you rise, the marrow-creeping chill
enfolding you with memories that will
arouse what was anesthetized, provoke
sensations muted, muffled by the cloak
of summer’s long somnolences; the spill
of frozen mist reactivates a twinge
of loss - your tropic comforts left you slow
to recollect the widder-shine of fire
against an icy twilight, how you’d singe
your reddened hands against the dancing glow,
the dearths of solstice whetting your desire.
the solstice passed unnoticed, as it does
so often in the tropics; lacking cold,
the darkness’s encroachment doesn’t hold
much weight, whereas in northern climes it was
a poignant mental milestone, because
the angle of the hemispheric roll
encouraged dark reflections to unfold
about what had and hadn’t changed; a pause
that fostered contemplation of the past.
this taking stock, the paring down to bone,
this inward turn at waning of the light,
is hard at the equator; years fly fast.
i compensate with coldness of my own,
observing the enfolding cloak of night.
Here are some sonnets I have about the #solstice. glancing at the ol' calendar, more are probably on the way! thanks for reading! #sonnet #poetry #fun #hashtags #writinglife #amwriting #morehashtags #why #help #writingfun