The Darkest Nights

December dark nights
don’t bother me.
I need the balance of them
to wrap themselves
like the black winged bird they are,
feathers like lashes covering my eyes,
letting me fall into
depths of the richest despair,
letting me fall asleep,
focus on blackness
that amounts to less than
the imagination can grasp
in her hungry, outstretched palm.

When the darkness comes,
my breath comes easier
as I dive back into the womb-cave of time.
My hands trace the face of memory here—
etch the symbols someone
might someday understand
to mean something
like absolute kindness.

If I place my hand over the heart
of my child self,
the one who wants to call out
to all of our mothers,
I calm her,
rock her to sleep
in this darkness,
and I let her slumber
next to the warmth
of your enormous love.

In the darkness, we turn
to each other as innocents,
wrap our arms around the other,
and become one light
that will be the spark
that will start another fire
and sustain us until spring.