WINTER SOLSTICE
To stay at home and watch the sun go down,
And let the world turn on its starlit way
Into the night, after the shortest day—
To be nobody, consciousness unbound
To name and form. To be the witness found
Who clearly testifies to what is seen;
Speaks truth and nothing but the truth. To lean
Upon the windowsill, a face unknown
To passers-by who in the dying fall
May glance toward the glass pane where one stands,
And not be blinded by the fiery ball’s
Reflection as it burns through time—may glance,
Reminded of their vagrant circumstance.
TODAY’S NEWS
What could be more topical
Than the decay of fallen tendrils
At my feet on the forest roots,
Where the mud sticks to my boots?
Earth crumbles numbly into space;
Fire breathes down upon my face;
Water boils and evaporates;
Lungs gasp. Can it be too late?
What could be more apropos?
Blackflies buzz about my brow
Veins throb and blood turns red
With the poisoned oxygen.
I read it in today’s news—
The world’s a butcher shop of views:
Human bodies hacked to bits,
Torn to shreds on the internet.
Withered trees follow the sun,
Starved of light and nitrogen,
Convulsed against the frost heaves,
Siphoning death into roots and leaves.
Lee Evans lives in Bath, Maine in retirement from the Maryland State Archives and the Bath YMCA. He writes poetry whenever he cannot resist the urge to do so.
Grand Little Things 