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Poem: Solstice 


We pulled her green body

from the hillside

on a wet December afternoon

as soft light was sinking.


The pruning and wrestling of branches

the weeping scent

the sap thick sawdust.


The work to resurrect

the turning of the screws

the tipping

and the leaning

and the righting

and the balancing.


Until she stood again.

Her sacrifice.

Our ritual.

Our truest gift.


Bringing the farm

and the old woman at the door

and the moon

into the living room.


The next day

adorned only by morning light

she is a perfect asana in the corner

every branch turned up

and reaching

to the sky.

  • A poem by Amy K. Benedict.

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