The darkest days have passed and moving forward, the glow over the horizon will stretch time by measured increments. Winter will not rush to satisfy our need for light. She will keep us in cool suspense, even as coming of day grows. There is yet space to cozy in a corner and cry, or sleep, or hunker, or hide. The linear growth of primal light will not mirror a soul’s fight or flight. As winter whimsically tiptoes into spring, there will yet be blood, beauty, peace, and suffering still to be had. From one year to the next, light does not mend our aches or woes; nor does feasting, noise, or merry making. But in the unseen corners of our souls, in the dimmest spaces, a choice grows. So Life asks, ‘what dear, is yours?’
About the Creator
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More stories from Mary Syrrist and writers in Poets and other communities.
She Is
Like Kali; eater of souls, destroyer of the depraved, Universal Mother. Black as burns that raze all enemies in her wake. It is Her time for rising up. No more Bondage to His will. She is the great equalizer; Damnation to the status quo, Salvation of the downtrodden, underrepresented, unheard, unseen Outcast. It is revenge she is after, And IT IS JUST. Out of ash and annihilation forms the fertilization of Queenship. Heads will hang about her in victorious array, amidst frozen gasps in the presence of her awesome, gaping wrath. Tongue flicking, many-armed multitasking; representing the thankless years of Woman smouldering, unseen;
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Comments (1)
I love the photo you used for this story. It's a great winter scene.