winter’s womb

Her soul is quiet,

as a babe at her mother’s breast

(or so the scripture says)

Nurture will do that at last.

Striving stills,

not-enoughness falls off her shouders,


of judgment,


loss of belonging


like the hungry ghosts that they are

hardened defenses, hidden

beneath the cold rock, soften,

warming the stone

Gazing upon the light in her womb,

wonder of wonders,

She is bearer of something divine,

worthy of tenderness,

deserving of being cherished.

Rest and remember

Release and recharge

The seed uncovered beneath the debris,

layers of yearning peeled back

the precious pearl?


once sprouted and budded

blossomed, borne fruit

when was it succumbed to the cold?

Dried and then felled,

buried, forgotten


that external eye beheld her

held her

sustained her

the sun

drawing her forth from her grave


she re-members

it is her own gaze will save her



tendered, the delicate roots tendril

rooting allaying the rooting

of the suckling

laying her at last to rest

in the ground of her being

the womb of her wisdom

mother of her soul

her Self

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