All Things Considered
Penn Kemp
Pale sun on snow pulls me from a poem
to the window, lights a shaft of spinning
possibility. Now at nadir of deepest darkness
the small Moon of Long Night turns to beam
over the orchard above the frozen lake.
The sun stands Solstice still, holding
its breath, biding its time until released
to start once more in utter clarity of cold.
In that perilous moment before cycles
start up again, we all can fall through
cracks. Interstices of ice drag us down.
We slip between stars, drawn out
beyond what we know, considering,
considere, to be with the luminary
in the void we have too long avoided.
We fall, we fail to grasp the star we
hang on, the metaphor we reach for.
We grope from dusk to dark to light
that is meant to trick, to lead us astray
en las estrellas, through this vast space.
We sleep warily, drifting far, unsecured
by orchard, by lake, by familiar bed.
Hold on! But there is nothing to hold fast
