The Twelfth Day
Today a manifestation. draw out again, when I was working in my barren yard fighting back these pests of saplings, cedar, and autumn olive. invasive little sins, that touch my habitat.
My heart. have I yielded these fruits too? the soul in winter can never be too certain, what lies beneath festering? in dormancy? in vacancy? little habits taking root?
I have been cut. my hands are marred by thorns, not unlike yours
come spring.
For I must make amends, some reparations. with more idle time, the sun's light growing,
now still.
Longer days shining brightly, and stopping overhead.
