Two days before solecist the south-east sun
first appears above the crest of Poland Spring
Hill, the image of the tall water storage tank a
clearly shows as if a mystic monument set
by some shaman of the industrial age to mark
the south-most annual migration go the sun in
its roughly one-hundred thirty degree seasonal
arc — the clock-time seven thirty-five as I
stand naked about to dress in the new light
I'm barely feeling — in ten minutes I am
dressed ("decent" some call it) and the sun's
full disk is clear above the ridge of the hill,
a ridge fringed by dark pine and leafless oaks.
Already I'm impatient waiting for the sun
to rise from directly east of where I'll stand,
as I do now, across the still unfrozen pond.
My christmas tree is stand-in for a sun-dial.