My eyes are rehearsing
for when the winter solstice ends.
As the light wanes I see
what I thought was reluctance covering
my face. I want to expand
every moment into an emotional chemistry
that includes the smell and texture of
every lover I’ve had.
But the solstice is ending,
old recalled lovers who look
like glasswing butterflies
stretched across other summers
find the pot of gold at the end
of my rainbow.