journey toward winter solstice, lost light, weak orb only wins in the morning, by early afternoon the disappearing begins, darkness, a time to hide, in a book, a bed, by a window looking at snowflakes falling, the white ground rising to meet wind and swaying pine trees, howling silence, nature’s portrait of death, the end of something, and now i understand january 1st, i used to always wonder, why not call september the beginning like in judaism? but i get it, the minutes added each day, climbing back into the sun, waiting for spring to heal the earth, but for now we rest.