We’re stirring the cauldron
the thick and sticky
syrup and grit
the mud pulling at our heels
not the bright spring sprout
with nodule of dew
but the dark, obscured, unformed
and weighty partner
the feeding stew
of shit, and fears, unspoken grief
broken tears
and mothering blood
offering slow-cooked nourishment
to the sprouts
that invariably come
here, there, we know not where.
Winter time,
soul, hearth, slumber and pie time.
May we hold growing light
tenderly
with encouragement
of the winter to come.
