I’m thresholding, G-d, in another season of Winter in my midlife.
The solstice has passed and a chill has settled into my bones and the stripped branches
as the depths of my wintering lays bare to the Wolf moon.
All is quiet now, resting in it's snowy sabbatical.
Longing for your Light and promises of warmth,
I chase your rays as they travel across shortened days
before evaporating into elongated nights.
Where are you in this stillness?
Beneath? Hidden within? Perhaps hypogean
among the roots holding onto each other, swaddled in soil,
desperate for reassurance we're not alone.
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