The Latest Morning of the Year

Well after the winter solstice,
And long after you’ve gone those miles,
Gotten your sleep and woken up
With more to go, the mornings still

Chase the retreating sunset hour.
So let’s call that the real solstice,
Latest dawn, at the beginning
Of the coldest month. That’s winter.

At the extremes of hemispheres,
A bit of wobble lets you know
Nothing ever really returns,
Nothing always really doesn’t.

Like the topics inked in symbols
Deep in caves, high on canyon walls,
Or painted on skins, on paper,
On canvas, on bark, whatever—

You celebrate your own presence
In the scene, blowing on chapped hands.
You illustrate monsters and beasts,
You mix ash, lust, and death in songs,

And then you wander off to hunt
And do your business, live your lives,
Year after year, generations
On generations, miles, sleep, miles.