Everything that breathes wild, sleeps; the roaring given over to the wind, screaming through the trees that were sanctuary. Even the fairytale stars, inherently kind, appear cruel, burning only frost light through the black lake of sky. I am unwanted by the outside; winter hunts the human. Everything healing is under the snow, with patient claws. So I must, too, let sadness, want and not-understanding roam; whirling with snowflakes, dirt and everything Earth has to say right now; while I find the creature, the candle the deep, deep dream that will emerge when the time of the anti-sun is over - read her stories of wolves and warm star-bears - she will need them in the thawing. C. LJ Ireton, 2024
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