On the Shortest Days 

Joyce Sutphen 

At almost four in the afternoon, the

wind picks up and sifts through the golden woods.

The tree trunks bronze and redden, branches

on fire in the heavy sky that flickers

with the disappearing sun. I wonder

what I owe the fading day, why I keep

my place at this dark desk by the window

measuring the force of the wind, gauging

how long a certain cloud will hold that pink

edge that even now has slipped into gray?

Quickly the lights are appearing, a lamp

in every window and nests of stars

on the rooftops. Ladders lean against the hills

and people climb, rung by rung, into the night.