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Dear Venus of my Heart,

The Solstice of blue, once flourishing with fiery flowers red, the petals of our garden froze. The chimney of our cabin of dreams, ambitious as Alexander's attainments, pops with the fog of the remnants of heat. We used to defy the now frozen roaring raging river of time and drink from the abstract notion of forever. For me, it felt like years embracing the elation of our entangled hearts, despite the days that went by. But reality is a grey mirror, and, in a hoard of wretched ways, I wronged you. Our Ecstasy, even extremely enlivening, was fleeting in behalf of my secret despair.

Imagine I a long-lasting love, a motto that guards me of any break. An unpierceable vowel, a couple for life, to live like lions loyal, bold and courageous yet entwined. So, to pour my emotions akin to the biblical flood and undergo an Ophelia, or even a Mimì, to subversion it distresses me. The motivations of mine may map me as an adamant, but I am a romantic, a believer of one true love. I just worry my machine shall yield to the snap of the edge and the ever yearly youthful yearning of restless consummation repels me. While passion is the feeling of the flesh, love is the feeling of the soul; one mate shall be fate. And my soul longs for you in spite of the lonely length that loosens our bonds.

Thus, out of my outrageous offense, I repent. I lament my vanity, this vividly voracious scruple of kissing way before and tragically after the priest's last words without a care for the bride. I apologize for this erroneous early enamor and the ceaseless insistence to the raw departure, leaving echoes of you in pictures of us. But now alas is time for my final parting, to let go because move on I shall. Heart breaks for heart's sake.

Forever and always,

PS: The fog shrouded our cabin of dreams. I feared going back to our place. But doubt no longer clouds my view, so I cleared the mist. Still, the chimney's black stains cannot be cleaned. Hope for this house rests on its grave. However, a new home is just around the corner. It is up to you to build it with me. I will be waiting.
This poem is a love letter to the person the previous two pieces were written for. It establishes that I finally found a way to move on and ends the first chapter of the anthology. From all the poems in it, this was actually the last one I wrote. Luckily, I actually got to reconnect with the recipient, yet I have not shared my poems with her.
Two lovebirds snuggle
in the shade of a weeping willow,
oblivious to chastising honks
of Canadian geese.

Blushing buds begin to bloom,
swollen with anticipation
as the solstice draws near
and blood boils beneath the skin.

Weathered voyeurs train watchful eyes
on the short-lived marriage of the flesh,
scoffing at the consummation of seasons,
knowing the fickle nature of the sun.

When the geese fly south, so will he.
Lawrence Hall Dec 2020
Lawrence Hall

                                    Christmas Eve Eve Eve

Winter arrives, they say, at 8:31
And how do they know? The light doesn’t change
The soft pale light filtering through the fog
Upon the grey-brown fields who have fallen asleep

While we speak of lockdowns and rollbacks and deaths
And plan for the least-attended Christmas Mass
The fields and forests hardly speak at all
Only in their prayerful whispers of the Eternal

Time is  told to us by the sun, moon, and stars -
And all the seasons arrive in God’s good time
A poem is itself.
Lee Carter Jun 2020
Summer rains and pleasant breeze
Gracious shade from reaching trees.

Balmy days and mild nights
Charming smells and vibrant sights.

A solstice born to a lover's June
Heralds Fall that comes too soon.
Chase Pamplin May 2020
Frost tipped roses shining from the midnight moon she’s healed her foremothers every solstice with a cleansing of the womb. Her skin glows perfect when the sun reaches it’s peak, guided travelers with an ample amount knowledge is what she seeks. Don’t open up her heart and tamper with her beliefs. If you aren’t going to love her like how she should don’t interrupt her peace.

JAATC Jan 2020
Summer solstice
when our souls
And as your
silver spoon
has fed you good
My mornings
will remain
your bedtime
Just like
we knew
it would.
Mysidian Bard Dec 2019
Upon the deathbed of Old Man Winter
Autumn placed her golden crown,
and as his heart began to thaw
he helped Spring lace her morning gown.
LLillis Dec 2019
Coloured lights brighten
the shortest day’s dreary night.
A dazzling glare.
I have always loved the excess of light around the solstice. We make the darkest and longest night of the year one of the brightest by lighting up our homes and streets with colour and wreathes, reminding us that starting now every day will be a little longer and a little brighter. I was particularly stuck by how the lights reflected off the wet ground creating a kaleidoscope of icy colour.
annh Sep 2019
They spoke to me of evenfall and dayspring, the solstice and the equinox. They sang of eras, epochs, and eons. On indigo nights, they whispered in the owl light of alchemy and enchantment, wreathing my cot with an iridescence which illuminated my dreams and begentled my slumber.

At Hallowtide, they scribed lyrical pathways in the air and sculpted rainbow arcs. They celebrated the vernal majesty of April and October's autumnal reprise with moonglade pageantry and sunset flourishes. They conjured blackberry winters and gypsy summers, and laughed at my amazement, as if to say: ‘Told you so!’

As the years departed my second decade and encroached alarmingly upon my third, I began to question why they had chosen me; why we walked together apart and apart together. I wondered where the magic ended and I began, and I realised with the bone-breaking chill of the unwelcome inevitable, just how lost I would be without it.

‘Magic exists. Who can doubt it, when there are rainbows and wildflowers, the music of the wind and the silence of the stars?’
- Nora Roberts
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