The sun stood still.
And then he swayed back to us, if only slightly.
Tomorrow he’ll linger longer.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
This time of year, we make our own light to stave in the hull of darkness.
We celebrate every holiday, light everything on fire, cook with oil.
The other night, I accidentally lit the lamb chops on fire. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Our bedroom is unheated. We have four layers of blankets on the bed. But the windows in that room face due east, and every extra drop of sunlight lands on me first.