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

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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.

Bones Full of Winter

“Winter… would be cold without warm memories.” I wholly agree with Sanaa’s words—I doubt I’d be able to survive New York winters without piles of mind-heating books, crazy socks, and indecent amounts of ginger and passion flower tea… reminding my frozen bones that spring will be back soon.

“Bones Full of Winter”

Bones full of Winter’s darkness,
sparkling in chills.
Face pilfered by frosty bites,
oned… glaciated…
beaten…

no, not beaten, never that; just
hibernating within dark pink thoughts,
sipping April Showers by the glass half full,
filling the womb fertile,
burning the heart with ice,
brewing cold yesterdays into warm tomorrows.
Cradled in January’s arms, waiting…
to Spring.

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a wee note…
– First published in 2013.

pink-body-sock
photo by Vincent Fournier
via