solstice of the spirit

 

On Solstice Eve we pretend

to play a day that never ends, staying

waves of night that sweep

from an eternal darkness.

So much do we see, that also denies

roost-less birds and bees rise with night sparks.

The faithful lotus keeps its honey scents,

as a windless pause of sunset

joins the comedy of abstinence.

But we are the Stars before vast stars

slowly emerge to claim their due,

and in sticky sweat begins

a year-long shift that ends in frosted air.

We pretend, as in so much of life,

that a day does not end, but

in the heart we know, all worldly things end-

whether well or otherwise- we accept

the hold of gravity on  hourglass sand.

In a longest day, beyond calendars,

the Solstice of the spirit; we lavish all,

immersed in love we have created.

There nothing ends, except as we allow.

Within each grain of hope is pain

of losing; we bear faithful intent to endure,

to beam along an endless path

like the light of mothering stars.

In a Solstice of seasons of being,

we hold the day, and speak in prayer

to the God within each man

to mold a place of light and will

and set seas to roll in endless tides.