With a two-fold cleft
this solstice sets about its clearance
someplace separate –
maybe it is stellar – in space.
First light
shears the landscape,
cold spears everything
and frost
forms an edge
for every margin.
Then, coming suddenly,
each brittle question
cracks:
Open.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your second verse is pure magic - there's nothing like dawn at mid-winter. Great work, Jacqui. N