Solstice

Howling weeks
uncurl ahead
At this depth,
light is a promise

The fall pine lays dead,
no sound was made
new seed is held
in a cold soil womb

If saplings hoist
through thunder and hail,
fronds could jostle,
branches, embrace –

give succour and shelter
to crawlers and flyers,
as roots thrum in soil
and bark hugs a core

More daylights must dapple
wolf moons must croon
Will these gusts disperse?
Will wildflowers yawn?