Awake into the day
look out the window to the bay
not quite light, not quite night
my shadow side, my sacred plight
shaped dreams pulling at the seams
ragged fingers strum familiar chords
keeping away from bustling hordes
this shortest day of the year
another trip around the sun
Walking to the bus this morning through the warm December mist, I struck up a pace, managing not to race, while keeping the sun in my face. Yes, the sun shone through, if for only ten minutes, it was still there. Ominous cloud forms hover over the city proper. Like the waning year, the light creates that backdrop of temporal decompression.
Whose holiday is it anyway?