Solstice

On the day of least light,
two cypress trees buffer the dark
and frame the rising sun.
On your own shortest days,
shadows long on the ground,
despair run full length,
depths scraped bare,
lungs, empty—
breathe.

Midwinter is only one moment,
an axis on which spring and autumn turn.
The deepest point of winter
is the shortest stop of all.
Feel for the point of your longest night,
trace every shadow,
find your cypress trees,
find your markers—
the place where shadow retreats
and your upswing begins.