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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

The Solstice

The solstice is here,
the shortest day,
between dawn and dusk,
a white flower.
Constellations of Christmas lights,
the glow of Hanukkah candles,
snow falling with a pale purity.
Rosettes of ribbons and wreaths.
The galaxy of the sky is dissolved.
The northern lights fall back
before the spectacle.
The birds of night stay quiet.

I hear only the wind
calling to the stars,
see the altar of the zenith
remain empty in the blaze.
For a moment we intrude
into the celestial sanctum,
heralding our saviors,
our course through the heavens,
which remain silent,
while winter
touches my cheeks,
and the cold,
enters me like a black candle,
turning me to stone.

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