Happy Winter Solstice 2024

What might we mean, in saying days will gain
in light? Will we be glad when darkness wanes
by slow degrees? Is darkness some age-pain

afflicting us? Do we think joy remains
when day remains — just when dark night's intense
grip strengthens? Why then do we sing refrains

in chorus, at the Solstice? Night's immense
and starry dome seems holy — just because
cathedral-like it begs us to commence

our songs to carol out the year that was,
that is no more. To give this longest night
its proper due, before departing. Does

this night prompt all this joy? But then what might
we mean, in saying days will gain in light?

& a note . . .

Some years ago on this date, when walking up to the village post office, I encountered a man unknown to me. I said, "Happy Solstice!" He seemed a little surprised, but said, "Happy Solstice? I like that!" We went our ways; and if he did not repeat the greeting to someone else, I would have been and still would be surprised.

I make little fuss about the Solstice in winter. This morning, with Martha, I went about daily doings without any real intent to spread the good news. I did say the greeting three times — twice to Amish women who were checking us out at small food stores. The greeting seemed not to register. The second one apparently thought I was saying some variety of "Have a nice day," and replied along the lines, "Yes, and the sun is out, and that is good."

Shortly thereafter we stopped to put gasoline in our van, at the village grocery. Being checked out by a worker there whom we have known for many years, I said my Solstice greeting. When she looked puzzled, I said that the days would be getting longer from here on. "Well, that's good," she said.

I was pondering this lack of comprehension, in these three. At home, after I set the noon-meal stew on stovetop to warming, this poem arrived on the page. To some degree it seems to wonder about my own degree of comprehension.

Cheers . . .

An Impromptu for the Winter Solstice

A happy winter solstice! — to the splintered
airborne ice that flails the high plains, now.
In hours, its reach will touch us, teach us how
a storm must scourge and scour. Her mild ways countered,
crossed, and snow-cursed under — Autumn, wintered,
bids farewell; and chilling gusts endow
with speed her ghosting leaves. Let Night allow
the days their day, soon! What the storm has entered


is the door to our new Solar year —
a door now dark and closing. Understand
this: we must take this gift, without demand
for any blessings not our own. Storm-fear
besets us while a Hope, cold-winged and grand
in snowy splendor, knows her time is near.

Grapevines, Winter Solstice

Branchings and runners fall shorter,
as short as they ever will be;
they fall to gloved hand and clipper
on winter solstice day.

Thickest trunks stay, rising through snow.
Thinnest vinings from the longest
of days, that bore greenest of growth,
fall, now days are shortest.

Oh, our summer seemed so endless
when countless thoughts clustered to mind —
although some vines would stand fruitless,
and many plans would end,

brought short by the trimming of hours;
and now celebrants trim yule trees,
and dwell with a sigh on past years
and long-gone solstice days.

I cut them short as they will be,
all year, these runners and branchings,
and hope that the shrinking of day
and dim thoughts of endings

will yield to times when even Time
will grow, granting days that will be
longer, when greening thoughts will climb
higher, nearer the sky —

at least along wires that we string
across land, across snow, to hold
such hopes. A solstice day must bring
something new, something old —

or bring short the old to unfold
into the new. Who can foresee
what one short day's trimming will yield,
this winter solstice day?

The Crows at Misty Winter Solstice Morning

In mist, by mist
the year has let her toenail edges be soft-kissed,
as stretched on solstice bier she lies
with shuttered eyes.

The crows upon the trees' dead branches
laugh in avalanches
in their nervous drollery -- at seeing her supine below
untouched by snow,

which all hold proper for her burial.
Those corvines aerial
in scouting near and far have missed
all signs of snowy cerements, in the mist,

and wonder what dire dooms befall
a year that ends without her proper pall.
They drop pine branches on her open palms
as though not we but she had need for alms.

She lies oblivious.
Yet that she lies so obvious
has offered more to prompt the crows' concern.
They fly to find what they might learn

from others tending distant regions,
and gather in tree-branch legions
sharing caws, caws, caws --
while some call out, "Because, cause, cause,"

when pointing down with beaks
at one below who walks in mud and speaks
as though the world has not gone wrong,
who sings a sentimental Christmas song.

The crows regret they let humans infest
the sacramental nest,
within which, after winter-solstice night,
each new year comes to light.

The crows have naught to do but wait,
this time when dusk comes early and the morning, late:
for Mother Crow will bring forgiving night
to drape, in place of snowy white.

—— Copyright 2015 Mark Rich