While I know, intellectually, that the earth spins on its axis daily, and rolls around the sun on an annual basis, it feels as though the sun swings, back and forth across the equator, forming seasons. There is the elegant knowledge of the tilt of the earth's axis, demonstrated over and over on the equinoxes and solstices at the Sunwheel in Amherst, and there is my own certain caveman knowledge that we need to light candles to make the sun return. It is a curious, binocular vision through which it view the world.

In a valiant effort to come to grips with this, I've written dozens of attempts at poetry. But they all come down to this:

hover, and swing
hover, and swing

the sun swings again across the equator to
hover, breathless in the heat of summer
we wait to exhale and then
we are tumbling down, across the shortening days
swinging across the equator again
to hover, cold and shivering in the dark
we band together, candles lit, singing
to call again to spring
the lengthening days, the brightening sun
the fast swing across the equinox and then we come again

to hover
and swing

Aerin tells me this is a peculiarly adult way to see it. She can remember when seasons lasted so long it wasn't really possible to remember when it had been different. And then they started to speed up. But this is how it feels to me.

So:

Happy MidWinter Hover of the Sun, and may the returning of the light bring all possible joy to you.