The solstice claims a meaning:
the peak has been reached.
Whether shortest day or longest night
year end is coming, something dies into winter.
So many somethings, someones,
reaching their own winter.
People kneeling with hope and prayer
creating ritual to mark the ending, many endings.
New can come, emerging as if the rite
had waked the sleeping form of new life.
New start, seeds stir underground
feel their life quiver, surely nearly ready.
Above the sun climbs again
renews each day, higher in the sky.
A new start. A New Year. Only if you choose
to think it so, claiming power over the procession of the seasons.
They have spun the world before you.
They will continue long after
your brief time under this sun has gone.
Beginning belongs in the way you choose to enter this place.
Here. Now.
Poetry of Moods and Moments 