Under Winter’s Shroud

The woods wear brown, hints of green, and a scent I can never describe to anyone who hasn’t tasted snow as it melts under the sun… My toes dream of dandelions and grass that know blades are manmade nightmares. In my blood, Nature sings her everchanging song.

fall’s bones rot
under winter’s shroud,
feeding spring

.
the wee notes…
– Many deliciously wild souls, in the Northern Hemisphere, are celebrating The Promise of Spring (or Imbolc or Brigid’s Day or… a few other names). Persephone isn’t back from the Underworld yet, but… spring’s coming.
– for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and Poets United.

When Memory Digs

“To respect the dignity of a relationship also implies accepting the end when it comes. Except in my mind, except in my dreams, where the aftertaste of her still lingers.” ~ André Brink

.
I remember
when your words were wanted
summery caresses on my skin…
Then came the fall,
and your touch turned into ice
that burned

like winter on my tender bits.

When memory digs
deep into my heart, I scream,
“It wasn’t real love!” but…
that bloody muscle remembers,
it knows love will be
anything it wants
to be—

love is ice and fire,
desire that flames
or melts (anything
it wants

to be).

.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.