Chronic Hibernation

I feel the whisper deep in the marrow of my bone, the hush of wintering my soul.

I close my eyes and winterize the frost that’s crept up into my thighs.

My condition, a longing lacking recognition.

The world is not a seed in my garden. I ache for the warmth of sun on the back side of my neck, and the bed of my nails equipped with the earth’s crust.

How I ache for Summer’s Wake in my chronic hibernation.

The fire’s warmth of the modernized hearth; bring me the herbs that have laid dormant, dig them holes, let them birth.

The tomb with all the treasure has always been hollow.

Bring both your decorated sage and we will paint the frame for those that were slain.

Let us walk in the frozen mud and watch as the tower comes undone.

How peculiar the old stone that cracks.

We are our mother’s labor but our backs weren’t made for that.