by Carolyn Riker
[Carolyn Riker MA is a poet and writer. She also has a private counselling practice and provides journal writing workshops. You can read more of her work at Magic of Stardust and Words or follow her on Facebook here.]
I’ve had several days now of alone time…
It is unusual and a gift that I couldn’t see until I breathed it. I have been able to watch the sun’s rise through the grey of dawn and smile at the flickers of frost melting on the waving boughs of evergreen.
It’s unique to follow daylight as it traverses the tempo of a cat’s soft slumbering purr. Night comes swifter and the glow of candles and the flames of fire comfort me more than the steady stream of always-doing-more. As much as I resisted, I needed this break. I had no idea how much my body was trying to tell me slow down until the exhaustion settled in around my joints. My eyes swam in molasses. Heaviness of I-can’t-hold-out-much-long, walked me to the throne of my nest. It’s winter’s gift of self-nurturing and love.
It’s been a quiet proclamation of femininity and a need for comfort foods. Lemon crisps and cranberry, white-chocolate shortbread dipped in tea; I felt a hint of being pampered without guilt. And the words started to flow even while I slept. My dreams became prose. This poem was birthed on a late afternoon when the sun had yet to fully shed its light and the night was already touching the sky in layers of the most exquisite quilted comfort of repose.
Winter’s solitude and love
by Carolyn Riker
Maybe, it’s sacred to breathe slower,
walk softer, into the winterish nights
and let it seep into the shortened
days of ancient grey.
Maybe, it’s hypnotic to
study the fire’s flame
and watch candle lights glow
along an edgeless night’s frame.
Maybe, winterberries accent
the fields as crimson reminders
of wild saffron centered violets
as they slumber beneath the bitter chill.
And maybe I have taken
field and form of hibernation
into my cave, a nest of
cerulean and opaque hues of
blankets and quilts and softest of pillows;
a gathering of tea, the nectar of handhold splendor,
longing for silent whispers of fresh snow.
Maybe winter is my companion
and my comfort of much needed silence;
how I embrace her blackest of precious pearls
the graceful midnight’s turn of velvet and
down of warmth of knowing
rabbits sleep safe and softly below.
Maybe, I am able to burrow next to
my own soul’s deepest throes;
my heart aches to replenish and
my mind’s prism
is at last able to paint canvas
of infinite sky and speculative wonder.
And maybe, it is sacred to
rest under the artic chill
till springs lightness tugs me forth,
and my aged budding
is once again renewed.