Part One:
Winter Solstice on the Columbia Plateau
The desert has gone quiet
in that way only winter knows
a hush stretched thin across the basalt,
like a blanket pulled up to the chin of the earth.
Frost feathers the sagebrush,
each branch a tiny cathedral window
catching the last scraps of dusk.
The air smells of stone and sleep.
Your breath rises
a small, wandering animal
seeking shelter in the starlight.
The cold here is ancient.
It moves slowly, like a glacier remembering itself,
curling around your ankles,
tugging at the hem of your coat
as if to say:
Stay. The night is long, but it is not lonely.
Above you, the sky opens
a black bowl rimmed with fire,
Orion sharpening his belt
against the edge of the horizon.
The Milky Way spills across the dark
like someone knocked over a lantern
and let the sparks run wild.
And in this vast, frozen quiet,
a warmth finds you.
Not sudden
more like the slow bloom of embers
in a stove you thought had gone out.
It gathers behind your ribs,
spreads to your fingertips,
wraps itself around your shoulders
like a friend’s coat
offered without a word.
Here, on the longest night,
in a desert that pretends to be empty
but is full of breath and waiting,
you are held.
The earth tilts.
The stars lean in.
And you
you glow like a coal
the solstice refuses to let go.
Part Two:
Solstice Snuggle in the Sagebrush
Tonight the desert is wearing
its biggest, puffiest winter coat.
Every sagebrush has a frosty hat,
and the rocks look like they’re
tucked in for bedtime.
The air is so cold
it nibbles your nose
just a tiny nibble,
like a curious Mose
saying hello.
Your breath floats up
like a little cloud creature,
stretching and yawning
before it drifts into the stars.
If you listen close,
you can almost hear it whisper,
“Wow… the sky is HUGE tonight.”
The moon hangs low,
round as a cookie,
and the stars sparkle
like someone spilled
a whole jar of glitter
across the dark.
And right in the middle
of this big, chilly desert,
a warm feeling finds you
slow and soft,
like a cozy blanket
wrapping itself around your shoulders.
It says,
“You’re safe.
You’re glowing.
You’re part of this night, too.”
So snuggle into your coat,
wiggle your toes,
and let the longest night
give you a gentle hug.
Tomorrow,
the sun will start coming back
but tonight,
the stars are keeping watch
just for you.
Dec 21, 2025
Dec 21, 2025 at 10:50 AM UTC
Part One:
Winter Solstice on the Columbia Plateau
The desert has gone quiet
in that way only winter knows
a hush stretched thin across the basalt,
like a blanket pulled up to the chin of the earth.
Frost feathers the sagebrush,
each branch a tiny cathedral window
catching the last scraps of dusk.
The air smells of stone and sleep.
Your breath rises
a small, wandering animal
seeking shelter in the starlight.
The cold here is ancient.
It moves slowly, like a glacier remembering itself,
curling around your ankles,
tugging at the hem of your coat
as if to say:
Stay. The night is long, but it is not lonely.
Above you, the sky opens
a black bowl rimmed with fire,
Orion sharpening his belt
against the edge of the horizon.
The Milky Way spills across the dark
like someone knocked over a lantern
and let the sparks run wild.
And in this vast, frozen quiet,
a warmth finds you.
Not sudden
more like the slow bloom of embers
in a stove you thought had gone out.
It gathers behind your ribs,
spreads to your fingertips,
wraps itself around your shoulders
like a friend’s coat
offered without a word.
Here, on the longest night,
in a desert that pretends to be empty
but is full of breath and waiting,
you are held.
The earth tilts.
The stars lean in.
And you
you glow like a coal
the solstice refuses to let go.
Part Two:
Solstice Snuggle in the Sagebrush
Tonight the desert is wearing
its biggest, puffiest winter coat.
Every sagebrush has a frosty hat,
and the rocks look like they’re
tucked in for bedtime.
The air is so cold
it nibbles your nose
just a tiny nibble,
like a curious Mose
saying hello.
Your breath floats up
like a little cloud creature,
stretching and yawning
before it drifts into the stars.
If you listen close,
you can almost hear it whisper,
“Wow… the sky is HUGE tonight.”
The moon hangs low,
round as a cookie,
and the stars sparkle
like someone spilled
a whole jar of glitter
across the dark.
And right in the middle
of this big, chilly desert,
a warm feeling finds you
slow and soft,
like a cozy blanket
wrapping itself around your shoulders.
It says,
“You’re safe.
You’re glowing.
You’re part of this night, too.”
So snuggle into your coat,
wiggle your toes,
and let the longest night
give you a gentle hug.
Tomorrow,
the sun will start coming back
but tonight,
the stars are keeping watch
just for you.
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