In the womb of winter
everyone is reborn.
Sunday, Dec. 4, 2022—Winter Poems Series—#1
This morning in his article “Talking to myself”, Pádraig Ó Tuama wrote, “A person remembers themself in a poem, and is remembered by it.”
This quote in particular, as well as the whole article, has me thinking—perhaps remembering—that poems don’t just call to the inner Self (the immutable core part of our selves.) They also invite us to remember and be remembered by the expanded Self of us that is made of the same elemental stuff as trees and mountains and oceans.
Poems can help us remember that we are elemental, intrinsic, and deeply at home even when life events are conspiring to do the opposite.
Between now and the end of 2022, I will share a couple of poems each week from several different poets. Keeping a metaphoric candle in the window. Because winter. Because poetry.
Today’s poem, “Circumventing” is one of my own.
Stress and her jagged cousin worry move in their trunks, boxes, smelly duvets, and dying houseplants. Two angry puppeteers jerking our days into tattered dances. Our bones, though, they know a different way. The deep places of this planet call to our marrow— a candle in the window. An open door. Move at the speed of trees, they say. Follow the savvy grasses and pull into your roots. In the womb of winter everyone is reborn.
With warm and gentle thoughts,