in the clear water my blood lets in clumps like solstice suns in the swathed winter sky. it’s a dream & there is chaos & curious children & mothers who are exhausted but still make time to talk to their girlfriends about family & work. I wake before the shortest lit day begins & the moon stands in the west like a queen in altar blue night before it moves away long enough to trick us into thinking the light is any more powerful than the dark. I write because it is what I do. fill pages with suns & purple spirals & words from oracles who always know exactly what my soul needs. this long reflection has commenced on the shortest day of the year. it is also the longest night of the year – & that is everything. this extraordinary paradox is a pillow for my poet ponderings, possibilities & pain. nature knows my deep needs, gives me darkness in which to shine my light & remember that I, that we, are made of seeds.
Ten poems to go. I can’t even…!