Two POEMS
Mary Beth OConnor
Solstice
In the middle of this winter night we are rowing. All over the cold north, even dogs by woodstoves
and cats curled in chairs, all out there rowing in what for all we know is a big black pupil in an all-
seeing eye snatched out of a freewheeling galaxy or spit into ours like a pinball out of the chute.
We bring trees into the house, and we feast and dance. But at night we are rowing so that the days
will lengthen, so that spring will once more arrive. But a storm has come up, and the boat leaks, and
the oars are so heavy.
Solitude
Before cakes floated from oven to counter
Under the wands of t.v. chefs, before gelato
Before rodeos, circuses, tickertape
Before Mardi Gras, the movies, popcorn
Before Stonehenge and cave paintings
Before electricity, computers, self-driving cars
Before Eve, before Christ, before emperors,
The amphitheater, cathedrals, the wild west
Before Alexa, before Dionysius
Before traffic, before Sputnik
Before snow globes and politicians
Before reunions in hotels made of ice
But not before the northern lights
Even then, the urge for loneliness,
For a contemplative life
High in the mountains, looking down
—as ice tongues lap the villages
In the middle of this winter night we are rowing. All over the cold north, even dogs by woodstoves
and cats curled in chairs, all out there rowing in what for all we know is a big black pupil in an all-
seeing eye snatched out of a freewheeling galaxy or spit into ours like a pinball out of the chute.
We bring trees into the house, and we feast and dance. But at night we are rowing so that the days
will lengthen, so that spring will once more arrive. But a storm has come up, and the boat leaks, and
the oars are so heavy.
Solitude
Before cakes floated from oven to counter
Under the wands of t.v. chefs, before gelato
Before rodeos, circuses, tickertape
Before Mardi Gras, the movies, popcorn
Before Stonehenge and cave paintings
Before electricity, computers, self-driving cars
Before Eve, before Christ, before emperors,
The amphitheater, cathedrals, the wild west
Before Alexa, before Dionysius
Before traffic, before Sputnik
Before snow globes and politicians
Before reunions in hotels made of ice
But not before the northern lights
Even then, the urge for loneliness,
For a contemplative life
High in the mountains, looking down
—as ice tongues lap the villages
Mary Beth OConnor is a writer and retired teacher in the Finger Lakes region of Central New York. She lives with her spouse in an old farmhouse that used to be a commune. Her poems are forthcoming from Twin Bird Review, Blueline, and Braided Way; and have appeared in The Avenue, Persimmon Tree, Minerva Rising, The Healing Muse, Blueline, Passager, and other literary magazines. She looks forward to mowing season.