Winter of my Heart

 

We wake to the rumbling thunder of blood,
Pumping hearts, twisted hearts, this shadow and I
Squeeze into the thick silences of trees.
Now the dark lights of Christmastide afflict us
Twilight memories drift, flux and flicker
In this breeze of Time,
Penumbra-beginning, hologram-end,
Such pungent affirmations, slip into the past:
Generations of suffering: eyes lifted to a cross,
a crescent, a menorah,
Yearnings spilling onto the page of history:
Promises made but never kept.
Out of time’s descent, I rise again,
In the beginning is the word.
The sacred apartness of the intelligible:
Fragments of the blood, firings in the brain,
The body, a holy place again.
This tinder-box of meaning flares,
Time ebbs and flows,
Just means to an end.

 

◄ Broken vessel

Blank slate ►

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