Sitting underneath the waxing moon, bewildered by the day.
Winter clouds pluck leaves from the pine, the harvest has gathered all of it's honey. Whispering winds blanket the wood while I make shelter by fireplaces. It's not so bad.
When Winter kisses the hills, bare skin will nuzzle beneath wool, and afternoon candles will be lit.
I was born a spring girl on December 13. From my head, to my belly, I belong to the petals, and nectar of sun beams. Although, summer is my time of prize, and enchantment, the winter still sketches it's own beauty.
I like the bareness of winter. I like the kindle of thoughtfulness, and imagination. In the winter, we are forced to dream of bluebirds, because we cannot see them. If the seasons were a human body, the summer would be our outsides. A picturesque fairness of light, and simplicity. It is not summer nor flesh that require heart plucking. The summer feels like a dream, as if I float through bubbly air. The sun kissed foot prints, the light of the morning, the dizziness of it all.
Instead of crawling into cotton clouds, and dreaming of ocean sands, I play with the wintry air. If you want to marry the wind, or the winter, you MUST bundle yourself in wool coats. It is the only way.
The frost cannot be received gladly unless you are warm. This is why I wear my gray faux fur. I call her wolf, because she reminds me of the traveling dog. Within her, summer warmth suffocates cold skin.
Today, I watched a coyote howl, and ramble into the ravine. The handsome creature had fur as thick as moonlight. His color was similar to the gray coat. I wanted to follow him, become him, be brightened by his journey, then return home as a girl. (Only in folktales..)
Tonight, I will admire our hanging records. The Band, John Prine, The Tallest Man On Earth, Leonard Cohen, Bruce Springsteen. They've all found homes in our music room. Tomorrow, I will pluck my banjo, eat spoonfuls of oatmeal, and dress warmly.