January feels like the growing child in the womb and the decaying body that carries it, interwoven and connected – a cycle both evolving from and dissolving into nothingness.
The cold of her presence rests in my lungs, freely moving in my chest and pulsing – howling back to the call of the wolves. The cold rests here, within me – a cave protecting her from more wild than she can handle, from a tomb so big she fears getting lost and evaporating without leaving fragments of her behind. This cold creeps through flesh to bone as though a world walker opening doors to new buried grounds planted with seeds of secrets that hide within the earth.
Shedding weight drips and yet it simultaneously grows around the most fragile parts of me. The weight of this cold, of this
The many faces of Janus, the dry bony hands of hers that slowly lose their flesh as
I am dying to be born anew, to perish those things that I have been carrying too long and to preserve that in time that which must remain through death. Barren garden of all that is me is stripped bare and raw with the beauty of the honest, unapologetic wild. The cry of December gives way to the silence of January. the loss makes way for truth – harsh and yet refreshing it its sweeping song as it shudders.
Howling winds are the only voices in the silence and dead of this long night. The truth of winter is the cloak which keeps us warm enough to survive. Hunched and struggling, this is what the darkness of womb is – preparation, growth for what is to come once we rise out of it, once we reclaim the space that we have surrendered to the cold by shrinking into ourselves and digging deep within. The weight our bodies have built up in preparation for this balances that which the night takes. It is this cycle of balance within the portals of the wolfs moon that make way for the migration within that is torpor.