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Love wintering, by Britta Benson

Picture credit: Britta Benson. Blackness, Scotland.
Love wintering


Love wintering,
flicking through old jotters
full of thoughts,
hibernating,
perhaps hatching like dragon’s eggs.
There’s promise in those darkened foolscap landscapes.

Love wintering,
communicating with past versions of my self,
scribbling hush, hush notes for a louder future,
breathing in the fairy dust of jaundiced pages,
still smelling those well mature coffee mug stains,
their rings sturdy, solid among desperate ink blots, 
where my heart full stopped back then.

Love wintering,
thriving on the clandestinely developing.
I am a beautiful, grumpy, moody seed,
growing in all dimensions,
even when I’m not looking.
Especially then.
The privilege of dream time.

Love wintering,
the haze and blur of my soul,
on the cusp, the brink, in the offing.
The as of yet unknown, unfolding
like a stubborn tight fisted bud
in plain sight of frost and cold,
‘see if I care’ written on its petals.

Love wintering,
and I, 
a storm beach,
littered with bits and pieces,
the past, the present, the future.
my shadow, 
a shape shifter,
connecting with each grain of sand, 
each shrapnel of thought,
the history of me.

Why do I put up a poem called ‘Love wintering’ on a sunny spring day like today? Because it’s got nothing to do with the season of winter. Or perhaps, because I forgot to put it up a couple of months ago…

Thanks for stopping by!

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