Sitting with the dark, watching for my shadow.
Old friend. Arch Nemesis.
Keeper of Secrets. Divine holder of all the parts that didn’t fit and find their way, all the memories less than desirable.


With her gnashing teeth and cunning eyes,
She slips through the Hawthorn,
runs wild naked with Winter.
I howl to her in reverence,
in union if only for a moment.
Ghost of Yuletime past and present,
embodied within one amorphous form.


I wait for her,
offer fresh fruit, warm stew at the hearth.
Reckon with whether we’ll face one another this visit…
Whether I can allow her, all hungry and reckless in this cabin held together with small kindnesses and unexpected grace.
Or if I’ll clamber away with my distractions as she feasts and has her way, before slipping up the stovepipe and back into December without warning.
Leaving me her fresh mess to reconsider in the light.

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