Winter lines the hollow
and scents the entrance.
With pine
and sap,
wilted rosemary
and damp,
beautifully
broken
vine.
And, she calls us,
leads us,
beckons, caresses us
under, and asunder…
we enter,
turn inward…
Surrender.
Hibernation is less a sleep
than it is a death…
a dive, deep..
a sit
in your own
water-filled
and pondliner-lined freezer. You know the one…
The grave, the tomb
ringing in
nights beseeching tune.
Let winter sing
and lay you down
to
Die
into you,
and your root
…just wither,
blackened and burnt
to ashes and soot
so silken
and laden
they hasten
and quicken the return
of the song
you sang,
then forgot..
so remember, and
curl
into your ball
midst the warm womb
of your Mother
and
let her
rattle down
the leaves
of your dried
dead
snake skin
tree.
Let her enter
your fevered dream..
and walk you
to your
stories edge
to freeze out the dead lines,
and
reach far within
to stoke,
with new strokes…
your
sweet
blue tipped flame.
Winter holds us
in her buried burrow,
lulls us
to sleep
that we awake
anew.
Brow, unfurrowed
and
Clearer,
more radiant
our faces
turned up
to the sun
that we,
again,
remember
our root,
our tree,
It’s cascading seeds and
that
Everything (my loves)
is working out
Per fect Ly.
©mjamesschroeder 2021