Long nights solstice

It's January
it's already been a long year
in spite of the short daylight hours

days pushing pencils and nights spent in long negotiation
weekends of toil
constantly losing ground

vultures circling


she died on the solstice
we buried her on new years eve
in a hand made pine box
copper and cold iron to keep the path
silver on her eyes for the ferryman
a rubber chicken in her hand for luck

and the world moves on with nary a hiccup