The Year the Sun Died
by Cliff Houston

A page on my calendar says it’s Springtime, but not here.
Not now.
Not since the sun died.

It’s cold sitting in this man-made pit.
My two friends and I are confined inside,
emerging every now and then to gather
frozen meat
and dead wood.

The outside is our meat locker: our storage area for animals that surrender to the absence.

Right now I guess we’re solid.
How long I don’t know.
We’ve felt no wind and seen no rain for months, but …

I miss the moon most of all.

Cliff Houston grew up in Georgia. He has lived in Pittsford, New York for sixteen years. He is married, has two grown children, and has served as pastor and chaplain to churches and businesses in the United States and England. He loves to dabble with words and sounds, likes dance music, although he cannot dance, and hopes to find some people willing to read a few poems he’s written along the way. Carlo Carretto is one of his favorite authors, and Jane Kenyon’s poetry is as welcome as an old friend. He’s also been deeply touched by the writing of Mary Oliver.

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