Solstice

We lose the Sun
A bit every day
As She slips-slinks away
In-To
The hemisphere that claims and
Observes the constellation
Called the Southern Cross

For brief moments I retrieve memories
Held in that hemisphere,
Of that constellation,
Bits and pieces of other days
I hold and display
Upon my palm
Like a hologram — while

Waiting for Sun’s return—
I imagine Her splashy splendor
Upon my friends’ doors and windows,
Each morning fleetingly greeting
Dew’s drops tenuously clinging to
Eucalyptus leaves, still
Listening to Land I once called home