shortest day of the year

Poem for the Winter Solstice  One morning you raise the east window blinds and there is the sun, hunched on the horizon, doing its best to break free, shunting aside a few clouds as it hoists itself in readiness to skate a frigid rink of sky, firing that cloud layer with deceptive warmth, an intense roseate glow. This is winter morning, you say to yourself, but then you realize …