Rest.

To give to dark tides, take advantage of more time spent with the stars, tune in to one’s circadian rhythm, and turn in early, lulled to sleep by lunar lullabies and celestial noise.

​​        (My secret is a weighted blanket, ​​        a low-spun ceiling fan to ebb the heat, ​​        a pair of crew socks, ​​        a Benadryl.)

Retreat.

To build a nest of fleece and pillow in front of the hearth fire, circle three times, and settle down with a fantasy fiction, knitting needles and yarn, a bowl of yam and lentil soup, one’s own thoughts and a pen.

​​        (I’ve barely left the house this year, ​​        but I’ve read 92 books, attended 36 ​​        therapy sessions, written 138 poems, ​​        made a pumpkin log with a pan two inches ​​        too big, moved into a new house, ​        started drinking tea, and threw and shoveled ​        the biggest snow of the season—so far— ​        while my partner was out of town.)

Reflection.

To imagine one’s self through a mirror when the moon can no longer catch itself on the lakes. To question what was ever so melancholy about more time spent with the stars, the cold’s biting reminder of blood and bone, the stripping down to naked core and looking it in the pure black eye, a little melancholia anyway.

​        (I love being melancholy. Love sobbing ​        my eyes swollen watching Come See Me ​        in the Good Light and Frankenstein. Love ​        a gothic novel, a ghost stories podcast, ​        death jokes, and planning my own funeral. ​        I love myself, I love myself, I love myself.)

Forgiveness.

To release a clenched fist, stale breath, clot in the heart, salt from tongue.

​        (I forgive you. ​        I forgive you. ​        I forgive you.)

Grief.

To let the snow pile up, remember how just two months ago, the world was a funeral pyre beautifully mistaken for a bonfire we wished to last a lifetime. To let the loss slip in through a ripped seam like a shock of cardinal on grey’s palette. To mourn the green and gold of girlhood, her violent end.

​        (I held my tears hostage when the first therapist ​        I’d had in six years and who actually helped me ​        told me she was leaving the field of therapy— ​        I didn’t want to make it about me. And again ​        when she told me, You love yourself and I’ll always ​        associate you with Andrea Gibson, during our last session.)

Healing.

To walk on water, make angels out of snow, let a good rain on a rare day above freezing melt a little ice, remember that nothing lasts forever—it just becomes something different. The tulip bulbs will crown the earth in jewels come spring.

​        (This is the first holiday season ​        that didn’t hurt.)

Prompts used (tags are the poets’ IG handles):

@loisofthehearth - “List poem: all the invitations winter offers: to rest, to retreat, to reflect, to forgive, to grieve, to heal.” @lorrainefaepoetry - “the last bonfire of the year”