Find us together:

tiptoeing across the fanning pages

of a calendar.


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The solstice didn’t differ from Sunday,

or Tuesday. A set chime reminds us,

but the day bleeds its metronomic

hours like all others, lathered

in the moon’s empty white.


And when the circle completes and shrinks upon itself,

like rings inside a tree, it can hide like the others,

each cradled

in the next,

And we:

Enveloping a weathered year,

Thicken.

Image credit: Jackson Palmer.