This is the solstice, the still point
of the sun, its cusp and midnight,
the year’s threshold
and unlocking, where the past
lets go of and becomes the future;
the place of caught breath, the door
of a vanished house left ajar.
Solstice Poem, Margaret Atwood
albedo too 
Lovely!
LikeLike
And not a moment too soon!
LikeLike
A beautiful piece
LikeLike