Solstice Midnight

A new day will dawn,
a solar disc peek
over the ridge.

Shy now,
as if it hadn't
a hundred million times
already.

It begins anew,
forgets each dusk
the path.
And plots naive
a trodden trail,
not knowing the cruel irony
of descent.

Thus rolls the days,
a pendulum sigh,
and once again
sunset
brings us home
to where we took
that warmth
and made it our own,
in a circle of stones.

In a circle of days
we too forget
the descent of growth
sometimes,
when spring lures
intoxication of life
on hibernating senses.

Echoed inversed,
two hundred dusks later.
When a last leaf falls
and leaves us fallen,
huddling around
a circle of stones.

Singing songs
of hope
that a new day
will dawn.