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.
