Balance

In the northwest winter
the days have shrunk to eight hours in length
so tonight on the beach
we set fire to forty abandoned Christmas trees
one after another
going up in showers of sparks
and billowing orange smoke
that has left my lips cracked and dry.
The flames licked high against a black sky
and subconsciously,
I think the hollering twenty somethings
knew this was an important ritual
enacted by every culture,
every year
to hasten the return of the sun.

In the tradition of fallen summer fruit
I know that this winter will pass
and these dark days
spent drowsing over all things soft and wooden
will resolve into long hours of sun
that seem never to tick by

Still, come August I'll be a year older
and then we'll circle around again
back to the month I slid screaming into
and can't stop returning to.

Meanwhile the full moon rises above Seattle's west edge
for the, what, billionth time.