Each year, at winter solstice, I hold my breath. Will this be the year in which I lean too far out into the dark ? Will the tethers give and let me plunge into the open mawed fall frightful of absolute dark and absolute cold ?
The sun noodles away at a great distance. Gravity and light dwindle. In the impending dark, activity continues:
Desquamation.
Exsanguination.
Dessication.
Attenuation.
Ora pro nobis.
Raw, bloodless, dry and gaunt, I look for comfort midair.
My reach falls short. My fingers fail.
But something at the last minute catches me, and holds me fast.
Surround, I pray. And ground.
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