Fill me up...

I am cracked, fissured, broken -- open. And I am the answer. Diffuse, mangled, twisted -- perfect. Only I fill the space. Only I am the answer and the question.

I feel my soul weep for my soul, my breath meet my breath, of me and not of me, rise up, known and unknown. Forever. Relentless. Conquered and never beaten.

Surrender comes slow and ragged, but whole each time, completion anew, anew, anew.

The center comes closer, the fear greater, but I get bigger, wider, more supple, more willing. I think this might be courage. I think this might be me.

I feel the life of your words as if they were my words, my life, my tender sadness, my untouchable joy.

The train passes. Whistles. I am in love, in love.

Chilled air, enveloping, mean and angry underneath. It feeds me. I know it. Determined and full of pain and yet...and yet... It it is the aching heart of time. A reflection of my own heart. Cold, clear, open so wide it breaks. Shards. The bringer. I will come. I will come... Home.

* * * *

It seems I've barely noticed the season, so rigid and protected that I see and feel it only from within the distortion of my glass shelter. My work.

My senses numbed by wanting, doing, becoming -- the season-less witch -- achievement and success, demons at my heels. My tower of Babel confounded by false beauty and hollow identity. My turrets stationed by faceless, nameless guardians.

I know myself to be greedy, greedy for accomplishment, achievement, progress, knowing...NOW. My deep joy buried. But it's rising up so that I may see myself imperfect and whole. Patient, finally.

As my childhood and youth churn and bubble I see the truth of their force and I can stand and be washed clean by them, taking them into me and letting them go completely.

How long I fear that fear has quieted my laughter and "grasping" replaced it in my ruby crown. No longer, no longer.

You remind me that I am greater. Your words, like soft whispers, wake me. I am the dragon my Charlie pretends in play -- a ragging fire asleep in her cave. Waiting.

Your words show me myself, what's possible. They become a thread to my inner knowing. As in the cool reflection of a solstice pool deep in the winter wood, I know the truth of my stillness. It is me.

And out of the ashes, crumbling and charred I raise my head. I am ready to see myself -- golden eyes wide open -- fissures, cracks, broken -- open. I am ready.

Truth greets me. Cold greets me. I am fortified.

Welcome home.

Winter's outstretched arms await.