The little deaths Winter brings;
To ride them out ’til
it’s warm again,
this is the task.
The water is raging under
this house on stilts.
The rain is chipping away
at all the vulnerable
and thirsty things.
Am I safe inside this box,
kept warm by power
that isn’t mine?
Am I really secure when
what I own
is not mine at all?
Each day feels like
I’m borrowing time
and going into debt.
There is a deficit of hope
when it gets cold.
There is a desolation
when everything vibrant
falls away, like flower petals
wilting in twilight.
There is dissolution
in the temporal, for it is
the nature of Nature
to destroy herself,
and regenerate.
Volcanos erupt and
green plants rise
from the ashes.
What will I become this time?
Will She make me a butterfly,
shining the blue mystery
of alchemy on my wings,
even if only for a few days
before I perish?
Will I give a shimmer of hope
to one with seeking eyes?
Will there be a witness
lost in the jungle who needs
a sign pointing to home?
Or will She make me a moth,
for the night-time,
flitting out of shadows
when drawn to the light?
Will I be so mesmerized
by contrast, so governed
by instincts, that I’m happy
to burn: death by fire, or life
hiding in light fixtures —
Who will change
the light-bulb and find me
there, behind the glass,
in the final thrusts
of my wings, or in
The Great Sleep?
Who will light the fire
that calls me home?
Copyright © 2019, Sheyorah Aossi
Creature Speak 