Solstice

First crowned in heaven, coin of our morning ills,
whose kiss night-sleeping dew-furled fronds awakes,
touch off steam-billow fog from hissing lakes
and spread your warmth like butter on the hills.

Fulcrum of worlds! What better time to sing
than this year-corner day, when most the Earth
inclines its craggy head towards your worth:
white fire, whose flicker fuels each breathing thing?

But my song recommends a different star,
clothed mortally, yet half again as bright.
Rage, golden noonday tyrant, from afar--
your disk is dim, and she is all my light.