Winterstices: A Space to Meet the Sun

First lines:

Earth chilled and dormant, the color of putty.

A few stalks still rise defiantly; no longer green, they snatch the light from the sunset itself to spangle themselves in gold.

Most of the world has already surrendered: ambitious growth traded for the soft lure of sleep, colorful garb set carefully aside in favor of utilitarian tones, the safe shelter of camouflage amidst the winter snows.

We stand at a threshold this time of year: too cold, generally speaking, and too bare to continue to call it fall, yet the calendar declines to mention winter’s name.

But there are other calendars, older ones whose ways of reckoning depend on the face of the world, not dates on a page.


Here, winter is not so much a season as a place.




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