Cloud Acre Solstice

A poem by Art Goodtimes

It isn’t so much the standing still that makes us
turn our busy heads, but the way the Sun escapes

each dusk, sliding almost down to the Blues before
tromboning back to the high peaks of the La Sals.

When we raise our songs like flags, it has to be around
a fire large as we dare. Beating on drums. Mesmerized

by the soprano-stringed glissandos of a lone dulcimer.
A lark chanting the light back from the southern abyss.

This the season to be outside. Untamed! Free to exercise
the heart muscles. When we must squeeze out fat & fail.

Release all that's been given. As gift. As goad. Or what
we’ve chosen to hold onto, past all reason, until it too

gets tossed on the pyre. And we stand stripped bare.
Smudged with sage. Prepared for Gaia’s great dark spinning.

A previous version was published in the Telluride Magazine.