2018-01-09 Winter's Kiss
I stand outside.
Harrowed serpents stretch
through the distressed sky,
eating the sun’s last light.
Street lamps forge motes of dust
into sulking elementals,
shambling in a dying breeze.
In my pocket,
a phone that will not ring.
Lost love lingers here,
a heavy hand on my heart
as my soul is baptized
in the violence of grief.
A different life laughs
from the tempting darkness
compelling me to listen
to what could have been.
It is seductive to imagine
sharing mind and mystery,
the harp of hearts
playing that sweet song.
Not belonging to the superficial;
intrigued by the art of the world’s pain.
Because, perhaps, like me,
it is wounded and weary.
But wisdom knows this season,
this glacial time of reflection,
harbinger of tomorrow’s secrets.
It knows cocoa and campfires,
stagnation and death.
Without a consultation,
without a wink from autumn,
winter here has come.
It is in that failing light
that birds fly south
and surviving beasts seek rest.
It is the stubborn that remain.
The guardian burns a white candle
to see us through the gray mists,
promising new beginnings,
reminding us of the old ways.
Burning sage to frighten devils,
burning letters to release the past.
Sacred smoke and holy ground.
I turn away, ready now
to play the song of the earth.
But as I close this old journal,
I mark my page with a sunflower,
and remember what the summer shared.
Harrowed serpents stretch
through the distressed sky,
eating the sun’s last light.
Street lamps forge motes of dust
into sulking elementals,
shambling in a dying breeze.
In my pocket,
a phone that will not ring.
Lost love lingers here,
a heavy hand on my heart
as my soul is baptized
in the violence of grief.
A different life laughs
from the tempting darkness
compelling me to listen
to what could have been.
It is seductive to imagine
sharing mind and mystery,
the harp of hearts
playing that sweet song.
Not belonging to the superficial;
intrigued by the art of the world’s pain.
Because, perhaps, like me,
it is wounded and weary.
But wisdom knows this season,
this glacial time of reflection,
harbinger of tomorrow’s secrets.
It knows cocoa and campfires,
stagnation and death.
Without a consultation,
without a wink from autumn,
winter here has come.
It is in that failing light
that birds fly south
and surviving beasts seek rest.
It is the stubborn that remain.
The guardian burns a white candle
to see us through the gray mists,
promising new beginnings,
reminding us of the old ways.
Burning sage to frighten devils,
burning letters to release the past.
Sacred smoke and holy ground.
I turn away, ready now
to play the song of the earth.
But as I close this old journal,
I mark my page with a sunflower,
and remember what the summer shared.