Winter Solstice

The night air is breathless under its blanket of distant stars.

Here on the avenue nothing stirs: the leafless tree-limbs stand

Like silent silhouettes etched against the pale moonlight. 

It is the winter solstice, the day the world did not end.

Dawn glimmers on the horizon, now a thick expanse of purple

Where streaks of magenta and orange tinge the eastern sky.  

 
Soon a film of light will seep through the gloom, revealing

Crooked rooftops, with chimneys like exclamation marks.

From afar, the drone of morning traffic and a wailing siren.

The day begins and with it the bustle of life, the roar of the city.

Maya, in an ancient tongue, is the illusion that the world is real.

Did something end or begin today?  Were we deluded?

 
Let scholars ponder the great cycles of time while
The world spins tirelessly, unmoved by theory or intent.

I wonder who cares what the Mayans really meant.

                                                                   ~  Stephen Mendonca