The trees are closed,
windows shuttered
with rain soaked skin,
roots lavished
in winter’s water,
their buds a rosary
along each branch
filled with darkness
on the long return to light.

What passes for morning
on the shortest day –
dim light and dark skies,
rain falling on the valley.
Nothing for it but to rest
nurturing the inner light,
find the remnant threads of joy
and weave a solstice blanket
to wrap the heart and let
the fire that flames within
warm us on the longest night.

How can I sleep
when the stars awake
and wind roars off the sea,
the valley filled
with the sounds
of fir trees quaking?
Creeks run high,
ocean layers the land
sheet after sheet
in a long dark night
rain washed and alive.

You seem so far away;
when I call you
my voice echoes
in a cavern of stone,
words thick, clogged
with the refuse of belief.
I struggle with deception,
the way I’m fooled
by hunger and despair.
I see you in the distance
coming toward me
with the old familiar look,
the voice of a friend;
you weren’t so far
except through
the glass of the world.
This is the morning
your words say,
ringing off the sky
into the deep clear blue.

Think about this day
and the long view
horizon to horizon
as the full moon sets
and Venus rises.
Our outpost
the blue planet
with the mystery
of trees and rivers,
tiny pearl
in a great fire
of swirling stars,
precious gift
so easily abused.
Regard the moon,
listen to the night sky;
we have just this
so tender and green,
soft as sand,
enduring as water.