Winter ends quietly.
Reflections of fairy lights gleam
on the frosted buds, the icicles beading towards
earth,
and I fish in the glass,
watching it ripple
into the edges of the sky you can only see
in dark windows.
I ask my reflection for a name
and it repeats my words without voice
like the frost froze familiarity
or perhaps
I was always an outsider
and the heavens always knew me.
I tell Cailleach it’s okay
to cry for the darkness,
and that though the drips echo in the forests,
nobody hears them.
I wait for Midas
to touch the boughs around me,
and for ghosts to craft ferns on windows,
and then I’ll hold my hands out
to catch the first snow.
No comments:
Post a Comment