Seneca ladies of the solstice

[ladies of the solstice]

Seneca

i rest, spine curved like the trunk of an old tree, as wind draws icy circles against my skin. inhaling a shaky breath, grey pricks the edges of my eyes and caresses my lips.

the girls, they run barefoot skin kissing brittle grass and polyester dresses rubbing softly against their shins, callow laughs float up like fog painting their cheeks a vibrant rose.

i watch as they link arms and saunter off towards the cedar trees,

ivory ribbons dance wildly in their hair as the late December sun flattens and dusk begins to fall.

they sit in a circle for the final time, ankles pressed into soil and palms stretched towards the sky. lights flicker around them as whispers of sweet wishes for the moon to rise t r a i l off their lips and bury deeply in the new hollows of their faces.

remembrance pools just out of my grasp and I grow dizzy as the girls lift their heads up to the stars,

letting the cosmos drip off their chins and collect on the hems of their dresses.

they bid the light one final hushed goodbye before the moon rises u p u p u p slowly like the steady tap of water into a creek, slowly until the sky becomes murky slowly until the stillness of juvenility disappears under spilled ink.