Poem Upon the Solstice

 A white stretch limousine is ranging through
 the wildlife refuge as I contemplate
 a snow goose through binoculars; the moon,

 now gibbous, rises faintly in the east
 in execution of its rounds before
 becoming full upon the coming solstice;

 and winter, still inebriated from
 its celebrations of millenniums
 to come, and those gone by, including this one,

 emerges from a window, waves towards me,
 and tips a bottle of champagne, still chilled.
 The driver sounds his horn at least three times.

 We watch the snow goose spread its graceful wings
 to fill the sky with soft December things,
 and drink to serendipity of climes.



copyright 2000 Gregory Perry