The Light Hangs Low

But Not Low Enough for Me

I often wish to live above the circle,
With day and night doing a different thing
Than here at third past the forty-first;
Where my winter Sol, if the clouds make way,
Hangs too high.

Were that it would stoop a little lower
And birth dawn just a bit slower.

You see, for sledding and packing snow,
I need just a few hours each day. But,
For reading, writing, and scheming
There's ne'er enough dark ink this far south.

On cold clear nights I look
Northward hoping for a glimpse of
Those Arctic shrouds I've never seen.
Yet wrapped beneath soft flannel and wool,
I dream of the haunting green
That drapes across that north-most sky.

Oh, I know that is not my place,
And perhaps I'm a twisted Fool;
But I wish that winter's night
Would cast a longer spell,
So sparks might better luminate its pall.