Stillness prevails upon us.
We are not moving,
these pillars of flesh.
Fingertips cold and gray
holding up the silence and the calm.
A restorative hibernation.
Heartbeats slowing step-wise,
anxious thoughts stilled
as we heed the “hush, hush, hush”
of the gracious old woman.
Her white hair coarse and clean
sweeps across our sunken faces
smelling of pine needles crushed
in the warm, glad palm of a child.
Ghosting lightly through the room,
one by one she comes to kiss us
in the corners of our heavy eyes,
as if we are to her as fragile
as new born babies.
Lips ice cold like a January moon,
breath like chimney smoke,
sharp and sweet;
possessing our senses with the familiarity
of ten thousand years,
she puts us all at ease
as we sit in Winter’s room.