Winter altar speaks

Time listening patiently

Secrets snowing down

~ Em C.



December Arrives (Asleep in its Coach)

Awaiting by lone rural crossroads
near fields where I planted my seeds
not but a handful of months ago
now death marks these plots with weeds

December arrives asleep in its coach
ushered by dark steeds a-clatter
their manes matted with felled fall
jowls dripping strawberry summer

Not a wink nor a nod does it offer
no notice of where it has been
a nudge will not loosen its slumber
a clap will not awaken it free

Its usual somber somnolence
ices my veins with a chill
despite its expected arrival
never prepared am I for it still

Offers of hearth, soup, and blanket
my wary guest eschews them all
it wants nothing of creature comforts
but wants everything alive
as last year’s toll

~ Emily C.

Small Sunsets

stood on deep puddle banks
lost in a turning world
i routinely fled

far from a universe
where days made sense,

flung into waves
of timeless days

(round and round…

no difference.)

i kicked an apple fallen
from a forgotten tree
i didn’t forget.

neglected fruit spoiled;
their last glory
small sunsets
in the glassy pavement

that only one
to observe,

to ponder diving:

the shallow
would catch me,
the apple would feed,
the water would

no one would stop
for me.

~ Em C. 11.29.18

My Tomorrow

I was the sunset rising
from shadeless grays
from the sea of yesterdays
kissing the shore
with renewed love
opening the door
of darkness
but not without a burst

of color uncontainable
brushed on blue sky dusk

I laughed while the pines
tickled their needles
on my cosmic cheek
painting peachy pink

a flash only briefly there
and only there

if you were looking

I was the sunset rising
feathers spread far
I flew
from the places I used to know
and landed right where I was before
I was told I had to go

exactly where I was meant to be
foothill toes grip cool sand
slipping regrets fall from hand
the blanket of space
keeps me warm
in the birth of my tomorrow

~ Emily C. 9.12.18

What Newness

every layer starts the same–

bark curling skin
shavings fall in mahogany
rolls of old soul

raw new virgin flesh
revealed just in time
for autumn’s bitter cold
a turning world’s welcome

every layer ends the same–

hulls of once-was,

dropped to fruit the fertile earth
with its aged patina of weathered time,

only free now
because it then lived

through the seasons
birthed by the light
seasoned by the dark
shed by the oncoming
growth of unrevealed

mille-feuille memories
reduced to compost
recycled for the next
seeds to sprout.

one wonders?

what newness we hide

we fear

we need…

~ Em C. 8.18.18