a poem for the winter solstice

it’s funny how we mark our days

in calendars,
in spreadsheets,
when our brilliant Sun star lights up the path for us already,
revealing truth,
exposing the night’s hidden secrets.

all without making an appointment.

what would happen if we listened
when days grow shorter:
we’d hear the trees sleeping
and the cold earth
turning everything dormant, dark

all that lives underneath us is waiting:
breathing, resting, and waiting.
like we’re meant to do.

but we insist
on making appointments
as though we know
when our days
are truly going to darken.