Solstice

Over the shoulder
into dawn - 
a bruised and battered sky. 
Past the fallen
teardrops of honey
so goes the field hands' cry. 

Through cedar boughs
melting off entoiling ice - 
a freshly minted leave.
In a turning corner,
past their gate
the smokehouse grants reprieve. 

Warm smoke trails,
"what's done is done,"
brow's glistening white beads.
Never again, 

someday.
Someday 
sighs and heaves.

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