coiled like a snake
Zir bones shake
But zie loves the snow
and despite the pain
welcomes the cold
Zie buries zir face in it
and lies on the ground
The stars above zir wondering eyes
work as mirrors
zie sees zirself in the skies.
I withdraw in winter, and write bad poetry. It’s the time of the year I grow quiet, cold, passive. I look within myself, and find things I didn’t know. Sometimes I find nothing.
Winters are not always spiritually productive for me. Sometimes they’re the time for me to regroup before summer, when the Work makes me busier than Brighid’s bees.
As soon as Samhain passes, I find myself becoming more withdrawn. Not just spiritually, but socially as well. I become even more of a shut-in, which is quite a feat.
Until Beltaine, I’m the Winter Witch. I’ve an ice heart; my hair is the leaves of conifers; my face is gnarled bark; my shawl is moss and snow; I am hunched, waiting, watchful. I see myself in the skies, in the trees, in the cold. I do not easily share my secrets, for they are hard-won.
Within my bones is the darkness of the earth herself; my blood contains the stars from the soil, and they sing to me in my sleep.
None of the earth is truly separate from me; none of my Work is something I don’t already know, to the very depth of my being. I needs must only remember; I needs must only gain the knowledge back from myself, and that is the hardest battle ever won.
The Winter Witch bides zir time; zie watches for the right moment. Then, quick as a snake, zie strikes, and carries off zir trophy proudly: the memory of Work done in another life.