The days of sleep can not last much longer. I am rested, and I’ve grown fierce wings to carry me aloft on the cold winds of winter. My moths and fireflies are of the winter, and of the stars, so I must go out to gather them. I must lead the deer to deeper woods and build a shelter for my fragile self, so that I may rest my wings when I am not aloft beneath the silver moon. The deer may be my guide through the trees in the cold, and I them from the dread sport.
I’ll be drawn back to the streets, and called by dark crows. I’ll find the ghosts and give them a place by my fire, and we will lift our voices high with the red fox, high with the joy of communion. We will march upon the eve of a new year and embrace the falling flakes, singing hope into our words, defiance into our warmest hearts.
I’ll share pages with the wind, they will be my feathers, stained black with ink. Uncounted truths in tales will become a whisper of the larger story about to unfold. A single page to unlock the spring, to release the rising, purest waters.
So much to be rid of, so much to give away and so much to regain sit in the future. I can taste it on the winds between the pages. I light fires with those oldest ones. These ones are fuel for confusion when they were read, feul for comfort and flames now. Their colored edges curl and release orange.
I breathe the air above the fallen leaves. Once bright, not earth-brown, they cycle awakenings in the sounds rising from the soles of my boots. Crispness surrounds me, and I know the breaking paper is falling away from me.
I look to the sky. I look to hope.