stop. stop like the sun at its height a world across, where flowers welcome wind and not a single lumen’s lost. stop like the sun at its depth herecent-passed, where all the leaves have left us and the snow’s drifts are amassed. stop like the centerpoint between those two extremes, the Temple in the Core—you’ve worshiped there in feveredreams.
the stillness of a solstice is a moment out of time, the kind of inbetweening that lets re[a]d and blu[rt]e[d] rhyme. every middle’s motionless when seen from an edge, where any point’s considered as the lead-end of a wedge, but this heart-hall is more centralain than I or you or we. its pledge is written in the round and rings from he to shining she.
for a song is there, self-singing, and its naming is an art. (it’s time, now—you know this—time for us to make our start.)