Good Late

Good late to you, too,
Sunset of the year,
Except that a year

Never alternates
With an anti-year,
The way day with night—

Before the advent
Of the calendars,
The years were always

Subtle, faces turned
One way then the next—
Only far enough

To polar regions
Could a year yield night,
And in the middle

Who could tell at all
How late a year was?
It rained or was dry,

But the days arrived
On time, never late
To sink or to rise.

Now, even islands
At the equator
Mark the abstract spot

When the late renews.
Shared myth makes shared truth.
Good late to you, too.