SUMMER SOLSTICE

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Yes, the light swings everywhere 
despite our needles. Even the briny fjord flaunts, 
sparkling with morning tongues 

 

of bladderwrack—how they flap

like tiny shirt tags. Lyme grass

strolls across today’s field of fossils

 

and tired jellyfish. We become 

strange creatures in the blinding

midsummer weeks. When the stars sleep

 

so deep we hardly see them.
When I wonder if you will stay 

my symmetry in the dark.

 

Rosehip petals chatter and unfold 
in thorny hedges. But who will tell them? 
October frost always comes to bruise 

the fruit. Wild hares run. 
Round nut eyes, like elderflower palms, 

flatten against the sky.

 

Confections of cumulus blink 

across June sunscapes and pour

lemonade into our English lawn daisies.

 

They are caught in a roving waltz with wild 
violets. Like a field of small girls slipping 
silent, into the tulle-lipped sea.

 

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​BIO: 

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Lindsay Kellar-Madsen writes compulsively in rare sleeves of time. She lives in the Danish countryside with her husband and four children, who wear shoes only when necessary. Her poems appear in The Shore, Humana Obscura, Porkbelly Press, Snapdragon Journal, and (forthcoming) The Wild Umbrella. Her latest children’s book is Meet the Wild (Little Otter Press, 2023).