SOLSTICE 

 

The hawk circles high overhead.

 

Again and again she glides and

floats in the open sky above me

like the soul of a friend or a new/

found poem.

 

I call out to her raucously tumbling

stumbling down from the mountain

peak on this day of the Winter Solstice

when darkness overcomes light.

 

I’m exhilarated half-crazed, wild

with grief and hope and this unplanned

embodied bravery, this wholehearted

descent towards bottom.

 

Yet the silent beauty of this solitary winged

creature, regal and pure in late afternoon’s

spacious coolness, the diffuse oranges and

yellows of the setting sun, these many angled

 

hunks of granite rock I clamber easily on

over around and down this steep enfolding

slope, and yes, these bright newborn

surprises, Winter’s paradox—tender green

blades of grass—are held within a soft haze

 

of marine air, a diaphanous invitation

from beyond, oozing in slowly from

the distant coast. I kneel here on muddy

ground and pray ‘yes’ and ‘thanks’

 

for this day and all who inhabit its shine

and shadow as I fall further and quietly,

now nearly breathless in my own animal

earthen circling, homewards toward a cup

 

of coffee and comforting warmth, as she the sudden

visitor, ethereal and so real, Winter’s auburn herald,

disappears northwards into a final immensity.