Perhaps it is only Samhainn, All Souls, Dia de Los Muertos- the chill of this Day of the Dead, with its dying year and its beginning of the descent toward Midwinter's long dark.
But I don't think so.
I see things as they are.
There is a storm coming.
This is one of the times when my bones creak and rasp. But its grey, glacial, ungilded sight- without tarnish or feeling, without the world a searing scald at every image- does not scare me.
This is an intricate, icy array of facts too frigid for fear.
This is one of the times when I know the stretch of my time and age. Old, old, old- ages echoing themselves down through my skeleton. Centuries old.
This is remembrance of my past. When I remember some of the things that have happened. When I consider some of the things I have done. When I fear some of the things I have failed to do.
This is one of the times when my spine rustles with secrets. It is a shifting murmur that holds a near-shattering weight. Heavy, grave, precarious- a stack of bricks balanced on the point of a crystal prism.
This is a burden of memory and unsought knowledge singing along fine edges.
This is one of the times when my hands are ugly. Very few things glitter without aid of gilt, and for now I have spent my store.
This is Cold, and Quiet. And Weariness.
This is one of the times that I feel a primeval wind rattling through my marrow. Rare and precious that all that remains is the truth, cushioned in a merciful void in which it does not wound.
This is that I comprehend too much; I say too much. (But never all of what I comprehend. Only what I know.) I have seen too much; I have felt too much. (But never only about what I see. Always also about what it causes.) I care too much; I am too close. (But never close enough to be found. Only close enough to keep the secrets given me safe.)
This is one of the times that mark seconds like weeks, ticking relentlessly against the seams of my skin.
This is one of the times that I am not big enough to contain my own life.
This is one of the times that it has spilled, pouring down through me, flooding through synapse and sinew into story. Into statement.
And into sense.
know. Nothing is reconciled
They flash the light of heaven indeed.
Let them have it, let them have it, it is mild.
Those who suffer see the truth. It has
murderous edges. They never avert
the gaze of calculation one degree.
But they are hurt, they are hurt, they are hurt