The Times Colonist asked five Victoria-area poets to create poems for the winter season.

Today we present Grace Cockburn's At the Solstice.

Poet blossoms in the garden

We had to ask. How can Grace Cockburn write such beautiful poetry with all those mortgages on her mind?

"I can assure you I don't have a cold banker's heart," laughed Cockburn, an RBC mortgage specialist.

"You'll find most poets out of necessity have very ordinary day jobs. Most poets are or have been waitresses and truck drivers and teachers. For me, being a mortgage specialist is wonderful because I meet so many fascinating, wonderful people."

Before her passion for poetry blossomed, Cockburn's past careers included working as a teaching assistant at Claremont and Stelly's secondary schools, providing academic support for math and science students, and working as a summer employment program administrator with the B.C. Ministry of Labour back in the 1970s.

These days, the Saanichton mother of two finds inspiration from the birds and flowers in her lovingly tended garden.

What inspired Cockburn, 62, to write At the Solstice?

"I find it fascinating that here we are in the 21st century and yet the two solstices are something we still pay attention to," she said. "It still has that kind of power."

The poet, mentored by such literary luminaries as Susan Stenson, Patrick Lane and Lorna Crozier, has had her work published in three chapbooks edited by Lane. Three years ago, she launched Winter Egg, her own first chapbook — a group of poems linked by a particular theme — and she recently attended her ninth poetry retreat, a gathering held annually in Sooke.

Cockburn also belongs to the Waywords, a group of poets who meet every two weeks.

"I have endless distractions, but it forces us to write," she said, confessing she can be a procrastinator.

She says she never takes for granted the creative environment that fosters poetry.

"We're so lucky to live in Victoria, where so many poets live — Don McKay, Jan Zwicky, Wendy Morton and (Victoria's poet laureate) Linda Rogers. The list is incredible. To have such an active poetic community is a blessing."

— Michael D. Reid

At the Solstice

By Grace Cockburn

And the first breathless moment/ when children come/ stumbling like new-born angels/ into morning light. — John Matthews

In the tenuous hour between dark and light,

everything waits: the late stars and the morning moon,

the pale buds still clinging to the New Dawn rose.

Somewhere in the garden, tree frogs sleep

and on a plum tree branch

a hummingbird has held its breath the longest time it can.

The sun stands as in decision, and we must wait,

an old fear, a new comfort:

there are still things beyond our reach.

And the first breathless moment

when the dark

which has been growing half the year

shuffles just a little to one side —

as it always does, I remind myself, turning

back from Neolithic doubt,

the miracle undiminished

by the kitchen lights I could snap on,

the digital Stonehenge glowing on the wall.

Porridge simmers on the stove, to be ready

when children come

sleep-tousled and hungry as the hummingbird

sudden at the feeder. Milk and sugar

in our bowls, we watch the bird become

luminous as manuscript, holly-berry crown ablaze.

Rosy finches ornament the cedars,

and in the shrubbery, thrushes red as rose-hips

are bright upon the ground.

Yesterday's snow lies trampled, a snow man

leans, as though listening for his creators to return

stumbling like new-born angels,

all scarves and boots and unmanageable wings,

voices taking flight. And the birds,

who understand all children

are heaven-born, whose young

are never nest-less,

will rejoice in outstretched mittens

full of seeds; in apples sliced

to reveal their whirling stars,

in that which rises, transforming

into morning light.