Solstice

When the sun stands still I will be looking out at the river, trying to feel the water on my skin as I stand away from it - feeling how the water would feel instead - instead of the visceral need to explain it to myself; I’ll refrain. If my heart were refrain and my desire a poem, I would find myself in proximate battle: unannounced and violent. To refrain means to stop oneself from doing something and yet in poetry it means the exact opposite: it means to repeat and repeat and repeat something in a stanza, usually at the end of the stanza, but it isn’t stopped. It’s permitted. The sun stands still. It’s permitted now. Today is the day. I say goodbye to it now. I say good bye.

You’re Poseidon controlling the waves of the ocean. Today is the shortest day of the year. The living room hasn’t been flooded with light yet. No room will be flooded with light today. It’s all dim. The final hurdle before you get to take a sip of water and relax. On this morning's run, the rain splattered over my face gently like a misty veil and the darkness just enveloped us in a hug and said “keep going.” I spent hours after as my wet socks dried on the radiator, going through a box of nostalgia that I shoved in the back of my closet. Countless love letters from a bygone era where I thought being obsessed over was the most important thing. Ticket stubs from concerts that I didn’t even enjoy but thought to keep just in case I forget. But forget what, exactly? There is such a thing as burning a memory far too soon, way before you’re ready to give it the send off it deserves. Everything that experiences you deserves a proper send off because that’s a life well lived.

Solstice