Dusk with daybreak—the shadowed haze
sits cold upon my shoulders
hiding Future in gray unknowns.
Tethered to old illusions,
I hunker low to the Mother
longing to return to her
as mist gentles me to slumber,
numbs my fears, halts my labored
breath with winter’s monotony.
Knees pulled tight, a fetal ball
of too many expectations,
I flee in desperation
back to her welcoming graces.
My unsteady hand gathers
kindle, possibilities fueled
by spring’s retreat, fall’s demise.
A flame feeds upon offerings
of leaf and twig, stick and log
until the blaze scorches my cheeks,
warms my tremulous fingers,
and banishes the icy gloom.
Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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