Ritual
Music summons the wise
daemon, notes of young genius
stirring. We light candles
with wishes, untether
the expectations of smoke.
A chorus of voices rises
above the scotch and red wine
and we remember exactly
what we meant when we said
exquisite. Time has been kind,
we try not to repeat last year’s
desires. No one cries, none of us
died, our circle gathered again;
the sun creaks, stops, reverses.
Winter Solstice 11:28 a.m. EST
Grace Mattern 