midnight animals 

like honey ghosts, suns dwindle. 
the tongue, a bed sheet. our snakeweed brush
in the yard leveled by wind & the first snows.
winter solstice is my favorite knot on the year's belt. 
as all pairs of lung, i know our need
for the star's return. for the warmth breath
& the light. still, i am the under-the-bed
creature. i am the plate of apples left 
at the food of the woods. there is a slavic legend
that at midnight on the solstice that 
all the animals have a brief window where
they can speak. i have seen it. the coyotes 
standing like people & singing. the chickens 
crying out for a mother feather. 
the geese who pass through this area on
their way to another realm, they tell stories
of the earliest times. when the land curved 
like a glance. before the sweet birds
went into the earth. i join them 
with my fresh midnight animal voice. we are
all far too critical of the dark. there are
some truth that only live here. some flowers
that only speak to the moon. grudges with origins
long forgotten. i invite the animals inside.
beg them to stay. to help me stretch the dark
as long as it will hold us. they are more
obedient than me. follow the changes
like disciples. i do not fight them when
they leave. the possums & the raccoons 
& the squirrels & even some spiders. 
they voices knit garlands that decorate 
my throat. i could spend every day like this. 
this is why i am not a midnight animal.
i do not know when to stay or depart. 
i open windows. burn cedar & sage. 
does the land forgive me? the toads sleep 
like pocket watches in the dirt.