solstice

A endless dance of metronomic grace
a tipsy whirl around our common mass
cartoonish pair in gravity's embrace
Apollo barely sways his stately ass.
But Gaia's dancing harder, as the girl
to trace Ezekiel's celestial wheels
a spritely pas-de-deux for a whole world
like Ginger Rogers, backwards, and in heels.
An axis canted far from the upright
defying the consensus solar plane
consigns our drinking season to long night
where fantasies of trolls and goblins reign.
Each solstice, as we're running out of rope,
rebounding day-length gives us cause for hope.