may i never be too old
to sit upon the ground
before a tall and hungry fire
built from gold
trees my only witness
sky my only hold
and the river running miles
through the crackled mud between us
singing hard and true and cold
. . .
I am struggling with the last days of February, struggling with the last days we had with our old-lady cat, struggling with change and loss, darkness and shadow.
Struggling but not giving up.
At night I make a fire, all orange and red and yellow against the black canvas of life, and then pull quilts around me and lose myself in books and words, or beautiful pictures. And when I am tired of beauty, I move on to things that make me laugh, or at the very least, smile.
The wind howls and I am bending. Down, down, down to touch the earth.
Once I have kissed it, then it will be time to let go and stretch back up towards the sun.
This month is its very own season. The empty cave of February.
And in a cave, you hibernate.
I’ll be here.
