Writing :: Nearing Winter Solstice, Anchorage

We hallucinate in the dark, unclench
our fingers to reach for wax wings,
knowing there is no sun to melt them,
nothing to stop our swift flight south.
There is no god driving a flaming chariot
across the sky, opening night’s curtains.
No suns may rise: only setting suns,
ever setting, perpetually setting suns.

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