Winter Solstice
for
Jean Valentine
bring
me the old season
that winter familiar
a
slow sheathing of moon in shadow
as
if sky were a gill
through which all things
flow
in
filter out
bring
me a home with no right angles
a space of curling in
not
too bright or sharp
and
bring me the time before that
with the garden dark with broken-down
coffee
grounds
rows of flowering mustard greens
the
smell of ripped roots fresh
from the pull
and
then before that
to
my round house a friend will come
or maybe the friend’s mother
I’ll
say stay for dinner
she’ll
say let me sew that
button
Janlori Goldman
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