BETSY JOHNSON MILLER solstice

BETSY JOHNSON-MILLER

solstice

the solid ice now like a table set for an eagle feast: fish guts pulled from one quick slit made by the thinnest knife

entirely (if briefly) how light the raw day is. how patiently we must wait for the water to bring our rocks dead wood

the thing that whispers to the feathers on a finch I do not know. the sun’s the same. the light is not. o yellow grow