Turning

Now the earth slides faster down
the long dark days towards Solstice.
We’ve been flung
almost too far from the center,
skidding violently along
the curve of space.

The pace
presses me flat against the rocks,
among the dried debris of summer.
Blackberry canes snarl my hair;
faded petals or leaves,
compressed beyond recognition,
cling to my lips and eyes.

Oh, it’s a long slide
down to the Solstice.

But we 
      shall be
tugged sunward at last on gravity’s leash:
     a cosmic 
                     crack-the-whip.

We’ll hit the corner flying
and careen round into who knows
what great wind of passage.

Even I
may be blown clear out of this cave, clean
onto my feet.

Lifting my arms to
layer upon layer of translucent
color cupped to Earth’s curve,
I’ll feel the thrust of the planet
beneath my feet.
Gulping air straight
from Arctic floes,
I’ll raise my face to
the icy stab of Orion’s sword and
roar
              for Joy.