by Ashley Kirkland

After Mark Doty

I walk through the woods
on a winter evening
with my youngest son on my back–

we’ve come to see
the Christmas lights, to celebrate
the Winter Solstice. Under

the cover of the lanai we dip
hot chocolate from crock pots, count
marshmallows (it’s only fair) into

small cups. The children
take turns banging the drums,
show off the lanterns

they made in class. I think it’s fitting
that it is the children who bring
the light, cupped

in their small hands,
that they are the ones to drive
out the darkness. We’ve gathered

to celebrate the longest night
and know we can, we might survive
to see the sun tomorrow. The teachers

have made a solstice spiral
out of pine branches, which the children run
around without regard

to its purpose– reflection, consideration
of the darkness present
inside all of us and the light we know

will eventually return, even though
sometimes it’s difficult to believe.
My older son and his friends run

through the darkness just beyond
the light that emanates
from the structure. I can only find

him by his bright, yellow boots
that streak across the night,
covered in December

mud. He refuses to leave when I call,
would stay all night if I let him, the boys
tackling each other and sliding

across the lawn. Their high-pitched
yells rise and echo in the forest, dissipate
with each breath among the trees.