At Sunreturn

The end of all good effort's hope and peace,
but life gives us materials that are hard;
the way forward is all-too-often barred,
and carping and conniving never seem to cease.
Yet as the year turns, there's a point of ease
as we recall times past; hope by the yard
grows in us, and we look up at the starred
night sky, and dream that there's surcease.
Gods are born, it seems, under the lowering sky,
though hope seems furthest, yet will sun return;
the cycle's still the same, and the bright phoenix
reminds us yearly that true hope will not lie.
The bird of time, although its beauty burn,
still rises, and its warmth comes through the bricks.