The year scurries on like black squirrels in red leaves.
Stillness comes in her end,
but we will await her.

Even as we scamper - as we scatter - as we scavenge.
We will await her.

For the pregnant belly of winter will swell with snow
like the full moon's glow
and the virgin giving birth to the north star.
A new year, perhaps -
but mostly, another death and birth into rhythm.

We will await her damp cold darkness.
We will await her pinprick lights.
We will await her profundity.
We will await her isolation.

And she will come swiftly -
on the wings of the clouds raging 'round -
an ocean of storms that drowns in silence.

She will cover our chaos in purity,
her folds reminding us of what once lay beneath,
beckoning us backward through time to a land that lies naked.

And the world will stop.
If only for a moment.
All the buzzing inside and outside frozen in her stillness.

There is warmth in being cold
     let your body slow, your breath slow
There is freedom in letting go.

She will hold us.
Each one.
In the cold beauty of her glow.
Until the morning is born.

We will await her.

Pin It on Pinterest