Before Dawn, Winter Solstice

This darkest morning, this smallest day.
Outside the window there could be nothing.

Or there could be the frozen edge of the lake
built up into small hills and valleys,

a landscape wrought by winds and waters,
a lacy edge that cedes to angry waves.

Or, there could be quiet covered land made soft
and beautiful by new snow. Girlish deer

nosing the edge of a lost meadow, their shy eyes
cast sideways toward the sun just waking.

But now all is blackness, nothing to see.
What we know is the daylight

will be slim today. What we know
is the Ancients set a trap

to catch the first few rays of sunrise
so they could be amazed, again.

What we know is nothing will change.
Nothing we can see. A minute here and there.

A minute here and there for months
and months. And only then will we know

how the world is different: A shady grey
at morning, no black wondering.

The lake quieter, brooding. The shore
gone soft or fierce. Meadows edging toward wild,

toward bursting. Days and days from now
we will awaken, look out from tentative doorways.

We will see how minutes changed things
after all. We will see what the world is now.

We will wonder when it happened,
and walk out in joy. Or lay our faces down

upon our hands, weeping.




Poet's note: I sometimes refer to this poem as "my global warming poem." It really isn't about global warming, though; it's about how small things can result in big changes over time. It's about not always realizing this as we go along in life, then suddenly realizing it. It's about wondering how the world, or a life, will be changed somewhere out there in the future. And it really was written on the morning of the winter solstice a few years ago.... which got me thinking about small things and big changes.