the sun in winter turns its back on us
and, for smelting, goes back to the kiln
where ore from gold is separated.
when it leaves
it pulls the darkness of midnight, stretching it
at the cost of day, or it pushes dawn
the completely wrong way.
and I’ve found that jersey I wore
our first time, and hand-washed and towel-dried it,
laid it bare upon the broad bed. and now I’ll dust
and ready the fire-place so we can leave
fresh prints on the hearth.
in truth, I’ve never really
known whether I’d rather rake leaves or shovel snow,
but it’s a chore we must do each year to escort the sun
when it’s hurled beyond our world, the earth,
to the other side.
it is a time when
autumn leaves and winter comes to whisper to the caves—
at its voice the hills shiver.
and I must also wash and scent the quilt, and
chop wood for the weeks ahead: hibernating in the malutis
requires no less.
so what have you brought
for the night-table. anything should
more than be suitable, of that I’m sure.
© Rethabile Masilo
Read more about or see the Malutis:
An American hardly think of snow in southern Africa.
Comment by Hathor — 19 April 2008 @ 5:08 pm