If winter solstice were a vegetable
it would be a candy cane beet
deep, burrowing ornament
of inside stripes
sweet baked in a bed of chilled soil

it would be swished and washed
swirled down to the far meadows of darkness
with hot chai, dark and spicy
beneath peaks of white froth

it would ride a horse drawn carriage
down a tree sheltered path
narrow and straight
into the longest night ever
wearing a cashmere wassail coat
midnight blue with blood red silk
circled around the shoulders
nothing underneath but
spells, potions, prayers
to soften the cold floors
of the ebony shadowed months to come

it would clop clop clop along
to the scamper music of mice
waltzing through leftovers
the Cheshire-amused cat looking on
too well-feasted and glassy-eyed
from lapping up cheese and turkey
to stage the great chase

instead letting the tilt chase the sun
all the way to Australia
surfing and sunning down
under that other solstice
six months away from winter waking
the Pacific Coast
the planet turns







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