Solstice

All summer, I watched moose
pause at the field’s edge, consider
their course. Then, later, calves returned
to chase each other under light that waned
but did not stop. What readies the green
for greening, the calf for cleaving
into its own?

I feel whole when I am with you, and whole
when I am away. (This is new.) Here,
the river’s rushing strips the land’s profusion
as my mind softens with rain. I’m reading books
on failed intimacy, how one advances
while the other retreats. But this

is not our story. In June,
even the darkest night is dusk. I pull silk
over my eyes, coax myself into dream,
where I cross a mossy forest floor
in reverie, the light dappling fallen trees.
Here, my heart softens, mistakes
a snow-capped volcano for cloud.