One morning you raise the east window blinds
and there is the sun, hunched on the horizon,
doing its best to break free, shunting aside
a few clouds as it hoists itself in readiness to skate
a frigid rink of sky, firing that cloud layer
with deceptive warmth, an intense roseate glow.
This is winter morning, you say to yourself,
but then you realize — and it comes as a shock —
that the sun has risen so far south, you feel
your house has been wrenched a quarter-twist
to the right while you slept. You check your watch —
migod, it’s coming nine o’clock.
When did this happen?
The wall calendar tells you it’s December,
but something deep within you has clung
to the lingering warmth of snowless autumn.
The body deplores this retreat towards the dark,
the dimming days, the physical affront of cold.
Already, unseen crevices within us are busy
re-programming the spirit for spring.
© by Glen Sorestad.
Used with the author’s permission.