The Winter solstice and the longest night has now past. The occasion brings to mind one of my favorite poems:

The Long, long Night

He would sculpt and I would write

to get us through this thing called life and

what seemed to be an aimless plight

The long, long night

I used pen and he used clay

to cope with all the pain filled days

which lived within our slow decay of

The long, long night

But in between the words and mud

we found the art of making love

and pacified the angst and blood of

The long, long night

Forsaken pages ripped and torn,

spattered earth across the floor,

graphite tales of love and war and

The long, long night

Come into my bed sweet angry lover,

your tender calloused hands beneath the cover.

Find the place where none has been,

beneath the ink and turning pin,

get us through yet once again

The long, long night