the healing muse

Volume 8, 2008

Winter

M. Frost

Snow on the ground. Through pines, dark streets
and occasional headlights. This is winter, my love.

Today, you brave the doctor and the mask,
the needles and the sharp scent of antiseptic
that clings to your drug-hazed brain as you doze.

When you wake to light, it will be like Persephone
emerging into spring. I imagine beneath the snow,
crocus bulbs sleep. Under the sun, you too will bloom.
You will dance and sing, and forget the darkness.

This is only winter, my love.
Only a season. For now, hold onto that.

Return to Table of Contents, Volume 8, 2008.

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