Here was yet another liminal space, a crossing point between the mundane and the magical. Winter, it seems is full of them: fleeting invitations to step out of the ordinary.
from the book, Wintering by Katherine May, 2020
i think of the lantern flies hibernating in the winter
(their beauty and their destructiveness)
i think about the sculptural tree fungus
(some fungus is good and some is harmful)
i grieve the space dog, Laika
(why, why, why did they have to send her into space?)
my lost heart locket haunts me, 50 years later
(if i bought another, would it heal the longing?)
maybe some tea would be good right now
(lemon ginger or peppermint?)
the lilac light seeps into twilight dreams—
a velveteen cape, a basket of plums, a violet crystal,
lavender stalks swaying in foreign fields
early, in the blue morning,
with a dusting of wet snow
and bitter wind,
the crows make their way from their roost—
their cacophony of sound traveling on the falling,
thick flakes, from a height that renders them small black specks that i struggled to see, beyond the iciness that clung to my lashes
memories of flowers — paper whites in a window, elegant, tall gladiolas, dried roses in a wooden bowl
this song: You’re No Good, the Linda Ronstadt version
these words: petrichor (thank you Brian) and elysian
black horses in my dreams, wild dogs, the woods and snow clouds
the sound of a relentless rain on a sleepless night
winter, spring, summer and fall sunsets — how different they look and how different they feel
And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun
The near and the dear one
The old and the young
A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let’s hope it’s a good one
Without any fear
And so this is Christmas
For weak and for strong
For rich and the poor ones
The world is so wrong
And so happy Christmas
For black and for white
For yellow and red ones
Let’s stop all the fight
A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let’s hope it’s a good one
Without any fear
a few lyrics from the song So This Is Christmas by John Lennon, 1971
she is a black winged woman
once a virgin, then a maiden, now a crone—
large, formidable, standing in black velvet platform boots,
wind at her back—
no white horses arriving today
no promises of peaceful doves and candy rainbows,
a window to a haunted past
and a hail storm future—
she is one woman,
but she is all the women
of her midnight-caped clan—
flying, diving, surviving—
thriving
there are times when we search far
and discover what we needed was in fact—
near
you have been here,
left your mark
that the rain and the wind will wash away—
but how very beautiful
it was
spanishwoods 