Find us together:
tiptoeing across the fanning pages
of a calendar.
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.
