Equinox

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I’ve learned he is not like the moon,

thumb-printed by shadow one night,

then full and yellow

as a harvest,

then gone altogether

on the thirteenth of November.

He himself cannot be tempted

or tilted

or touched by the shadows

cast by something bigger,

because he himself is that Sun,

and we are the thing that pivots away

into a dark winter

or unflinching summer.

But

twice a year

we rest in the nearness of the equinox,

where, to us,

the darkness lasts only as long

as the light.

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