By Trishuwa

Pupils grow large,

dark moons penetrated by
the hidden, the shadowed,
intricate lines and hues revealed.

The darkening, the underbelly of light,

roots grow deep down,
their shape formed by the twist of thoughts
woven into the fertile loam of body,
twists and bends of knowledge felt,
not seen with sunlit eyes.

I am the landscape of night.

My shadows softened by the light of the moon.
moonlight touching,
caressing the texture of life.

In quiet, alone moments I celebrate

the returning of the dark,
calling on bear memories.
Memories not of tribe,
memories of smells, scents,
decay becoming food to nourish roots.

Slowly the light returns.

Roots covered by blankets of snow
shimmering in moonlight.
I welcome the sparkle of sunlight mornings and snow crystals.
It is a time of blindness.
My eyes adjust to the returning light and I wait.

Grandmother moon guides me through the winter.

Curtains open to the stars

flesh of plant and animal
simmer in pots
to warm body and soul,
to nourish the dream body
born of shadows and moonlight.

Bare skin kissed by sunlight a memory.

Body wrapped in crafted coverings
slithers into cool sheets reaching
for a bed companion to warm.

In the spring I will peel away

the layers and explore
with rising sun eyes
the newness of my body, my dreams.
I will water the roots giving birth
to new sprigs of growth.

But now, it is winter

It is not a time to rush, hurry.
Time slows in the winter.
Feet placed carefully on ice and snow.
Body dressed to meet the north wind.

Fires lit to warm the night,

and I must tend to the fire
in the stove and in my belly.

Each day I celebrate the returning of the light.


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