Feathery pewter clouds

Are kicked up like ash

In the smoldering embers

Of the dying winter horizon.

It is difficult to imagine

Being blind to the light of day

Until we are truly without sight

In its oddly sudden departure.

It is not yet the longest night,

But my soul still feels the murmur

Of a cooling,

trembling earth,

fearful of her final moments

Of virescence.

Oh mother,

How can I ease your suffering?

Your grey melancholy

Bleeds upward through our feet

And we forget the touch

Of tepid breezes on our brow.

Please remember for us, mother.

Mourn not our Morningstar,

And do not fear your slumber.

You needn’t feel lonely

In the silence of this solstice.

It is preparing you to rest

Before you are reborn

By the gentle waking hand

Of the equinox.