the celestial and the mundane

 

Winter Solstice ‘20

Winter is coming. . .

in less than 12 hours the Sun will pause

in its escape into the south and consider returning to us

who live in the northern half of the Earth,

it is time for the dark to rule tonight and tomorrow night,

it is time for the light to feel its time coming,

and to hold our hopes in its rise and set,

in its defiance during the day as hope challenges despair,

morning dawns clear in the Smokies,

we decide to climb 3 miles up a mountain named Bullhead

to a stone table, gratuitously built by he C.C.C.,

while they fashioned the trail up from Cherokee Orchard

and on to the top of Mt. LeConte,

the stone table is just shy of halfway up Leconte

and near where a great Cherokee hero found Walisiyi, 

a great green frog,

we love to challenge our 70+ year old bodies with the effort,

I’m far slower on the trail than I was 20 years ago,

yet I’m also far more cognizant of the steep drop-offs

and of how each moment holds wonders,

the sun is bright today, despite how low in the sky it is,

broken icicles remember how cold it recently was

and soon will be again,

a bear or two casually haunt the middle slopes,

just where valley decides to steepen into rocky bluffs,

our afternoon passes with a few chores

and some relaxing to recover from our six mile effort, 

sunset comes early and we drive 

to the highest ridges the road knows,

warm color hugs the western sky

and blustering wind pulls the warmth from our skin

as the light fades into the west,

Jupiter announces himself 

as a bright dot of light to the southwest,

slowly, behind him and a bit up to the right,

Saturn reveals herself,

the two together a rare conjunction

not seen on Earth for about the last 800 years,

dark, menacing clouds swiftly gather overhead

and decide we should only glimpse moments 

of the great planets aligned,

we return down the mountain,

and I am appalled by the ego-centered crowds in Gatlinburg,

seemingly in pursuit of momentary diversion,

while in the sky above great gas planets align themselves

and the sun pauses to renew life in but a few months,

our car immediately followed by a truck

whose sound system assaults with its bass,

fifteen minutes of stop and go driving,

while discordant noise from his need for excessive stimulation

attacks us so that we, too, should know we are as nothing,

unless our senses are overwhelmed with noise,

it is hard to not despair

about the emptiness so many of us

seek to fill with excess,

while grandness is as close as the sky above

and the murmur of the streams nearby.

by Henry H. Walker

December 21, ‘20