Equinox and Solstice

The procession of the world

is a wonderful thing –

the natural order

changing ever so slowly;

the days wax into each other

unnoticed, except for the stars,

the falling leaves,

the coming drifts of snow

and lull of birds.

But equinox and solstice are elsewhere,

for I am in a train carriage

peopled by drunk idiots

repeating the game, the trick,

and hoping for a different result,

and the dream of season seems

as alien to me

as trying to find signs

in the puddle of last night’s

exuberant excess.