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Solstice , a poem by Ken Denberg.

Tomorrow is the shortest day of the year
only made darker by subtle indiscretions

and in the morning when we wake to snow
messy in our rustled bed does rain

disclose, melt all the night's accumulations.
So the flicker's eggs of her soft belly waits

for its slow hatching. The fire knows what
the wood does not, and water, its former

friend turns an eye away from the bird's
view. Is there a way to put things right

in their places, row by row, off the shelf
into the outstretched hand? One would

want to know unlighted rooms, cold and warm
what rumor of day was ahead for us all.

 

Ken Denberg has had poems in the Southern Poetry Review, The Agni Review, Sundog Review & other journals. He has recently published five essays in Main Street News: "There's The Rub," on bbq, "Buffalo, Buffalo," "The Apple, The Farmer, and The Hailstorm," "Deer Management," & "Trout in August." He is the editor of the Snail's Pace Press. His work appeared in several issues of this journal, most recently in Offcourse Issue #17, Summer 2003.

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