Winter always seems to be the season for deep reflection, and pondering the past seasons.
I mark the passing seasons by the shifting of the sun
Gone are the luminous red fireball evenings of summer
Replaced by the naked clarity of cold air,
a relentless north wind and the remote southern horizon
The sun retreats quickly now,
as if acknowledging the inevitable superiority
of the winter night's chill,
And heads home early to curl itself up for warmth,
until it is again time to brave the elements
and bring the new dawn
It is the season of truth, when all is laid bare,
It is the season when joy reveals itself unexpectedly,
It is the season of solstice when the present of the shortest day
promises the future of lengthening light,
It is the season of rededication and grit,
Time to stand steadfast against the gravity of polar rotation
I stand in the icy reflection of day's last light,
and mark the promise of a new year