Sanctified as the golden child,
the dawn-walker rises
from her balsam bed,
strolls the waning dark,
as a winter sky gathers every molecule
of memory into the shimmering universe.
Gaia sings her lullaby,
we draw ourselves toward
moving promises of light
and whisper something ancient,
more than sacred.
Salutations in a language
of frankincense and pine,
psalms hidden in the stone bones
of mother’s long and languid embrace.
We orbit round the sound and celebrate,
let this solstice night sustain us.