[vernal equinox, northern hemisphere]
The yule has turned
A quarter past
To this three-sixtyfived,
White spring equinox,
And six legged we two
Walk once again the path to
At the first of three
I bid the silent tree
A fingerpost toast,
A triple tap:
For my quickened feet that
Bring me here and wander yet,
For living loved in hope,
For absent friends alive
As mind’s moment.
Angled canine brows
Question my ritual:
C’mon then, let’s go!
[northern hemisphere: 23.4 degrees obliquity, perihelion]
Black stroked full flaps down
Over uncast overcast naval greys,
Wingtip taps reflected wingtips
A parallel rhumb line rhythm flight
Ruled over inshore mirror water.
Pulling up in a clumsy prehistoric stall,
A drunken marine shorebound landing
Pitches the branches of this,
Their February isle.
Around again our orbit wheels
Past drear and dreich northern months,
Until anglers rewound cast again
From their wooden clinkers.
When longer days’ winds whistle
And fetch and chop and slop the surface.
And, filled with heat and hunger,
The cormorants quit to seek
From the deeper waters,
Of driven seas.