Solstice Poem by Caroline Misner

There is an obscene language in the strength of the wind
that howls like stricken cats down the alleyway.
A boy balled up into himself
constricts me with his demands.
He is only marginal in the lives of others.

No fault,
it is no fault of his,
craving the green sickle of summer.
I watered the garden faithfully,
attended him with the same care
I attended the standing lilac tree,
the rose bush with its garnet
petals that clasp his heart,
the cold impatiens.

At dawn the neighbour walks his yellow hound,
wasps hover round the garbage cans, sucking
up a free meal; the spider bounces on its own string.
And when my bones are shadows
growing, tugging at ceremonies
with limbs blue from forgotten cold, lips parting
for signs of perfection,
the longest day has finally begun.