This is the solstice, the still pointof the sun, its cusp and midnight,the year’s thresholdand unlocking, where the pastlets go of and becomes the future;the place of caught breath, the doorof a vanished house left ajar...
Margaret Atwood
This is the solstice, the still pointof the sun, its cusp and midnight,the year’s thresholdand unlocking, where the pastlets go of and becomes the future;the place of caught breath, the doorof a vanished house left ajar...