The whole continent is frozen.
I'm not feeling the cold.
A humidity is rising within again, thawing long frozen places.
Hidden villages where I source my true citizenship
are stirring again with their morning activities.
Allies I cannot see are carrying lanterns, accompanying me.
Even they don't want to be called anything anymore
As I cross over from the dark half of the year to the light,
I remember something and feel a clutching talon release behind my ribs.
Last night I dreamed that I was a ghost
sitting at a table playing cards for my soul.
I didn't know whether to bet or to fold
and even now it seems to be my curse.
Games long held in place are drawing to a close.
Tapestries long woven are being unstitched.
Cords from old lives have been cut and their memories fade.
The Heart-Eye is becoming clear again.
I even heard my own soul whisper to itself in the dawn's rising light:
Traveler, O Traveler, have you seen what a trap waiting is?
Life isn't meant to be put on layaway.*
(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com
*with a deep nod of gratitude to a scholar and fellow traveler for reminding me of this notion.