Solstice

Solstice

I lit the fire early in a grate of ice

fruit-wood and wrist-thick old briar

catching quickly and climbing in coils

spreading along the ceiling of the low-roofed sky.

I pulled an old garden chair to its rough hearth

to the spit and hiss of rose oil

and the sweet fume of sawn apricot and peach

sunk in a warm corner of the garden framed with cold.

Inertia was everything, moving only for books and coffee

my breath a small bellows in the aching air

late afternoon the grass still rimed with white

a gathering shortness drew up the flight of hours

to the dark squat chimney of the evening and the coals

of morning, a ramble of rose hips and bright orange fruit.