on the cusp
and this summer, solstice was a wearying confrontation, wading through dusk and failing to meet the dawn; waking to the detritus of being on the edge of softly fading light, leaking dripped vitality through cracks between the seams,
where ashen charcoaled branches lie paralleled and flat;
iron dry, the creases dream
of monsoons drenched, re-earthed,
a moment of empowerment
deferring, now, to dirge
and minor, micro-management,
in increments and patterns
made of time and all it’s worth;
on the cusp of agency,
surrendering all power,
falling in full flight
in between the echoes
of the chill of bright white lights,
and the warm integrity
of gently lengthening nights.
Cherry Coombe 