Summer Solstice Poem: The Sun at the Threshold

The Sun stands high
with gold in her hands,
pouring fire
over field and bone.

The garden lifts its green face.
The river catches flame.
Even the stones remember
they were born from older heat.

Today the world says:
Look.
Look what has grown
while you were afraid.

Look what still blooms
after storms.
Look what reaches
even from broken soil.

I stand beneath the longest light
with my shadow at my feet,
not gone,
not conquered,
only small enough
to stop ruling me.

The fire does not ask me
to be perfect.
The Sun does not ask me
to be fearless.

Only present.

Only willing
to open my hands
and receive the warmth.

But hidden inside this brightness
is the old wisdom of the wheel:

what rises
will turn.

what blooms
will seed.

what burns
must someday soften
into ember.

So I do not cling
to the longest day.

I bless it.

I gather one coal
from the golden hearth of the sky
and tuck it carefully
inside my ribs.

For the darker road will come.

And when it does,
I will remember:

I have stood in the fullness of light.
I have been warmed.
I have been seen.
I have carried fire before.

And I will carry it again.

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Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.