Upon the Coming of Winter

I must believe in the wisdom of this Earth.
The coming of Winter.
That ecstasy will often weep upon the forgetfulness
of dreams.
A rise to come without a lightened gaze.
For we are such of what comes along with this settled
wisdom asleep on the seat of the soul.
Its resting place, a lap, a closed book, a title:
Dust Collected in Modernity.
Fog Atop our Living Lessons.
What we could potentially understand, if not with open eyes.
The scurrying, the six directions, the temples
being built for hibernated worship.
The branches giving way to vibrant pigment
in quilted waves.
All is preparation for something sacred. For life.
For what is ours and theirs.
For the protection of survival and what connects our breaths, our steps.
The sustenance of our beauty.
The chill will come and the reminder remains.
Frost is the price we pay for rebirth.

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7 thoughts on “Upon the Coming of Winter

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