I stand on the earth, barefoot, planted in the compost of my past years.
The compost is made with roses, blackberries and spines. It is sweet and sore and joyful and despairing.
If I had wings and the gift of travel through time and space, I would go here and touch there and whisper into the mind of my younger self.
“Do not say this and don’t do that.”
I would tell my younger self to be strong and to believe.
I would tell my younger self that all would be right in the end.
I would tell my younger self that this too, would pass.
I would tell my younger self that great love is just around the corner.
My heart is sore and it sits in pain.
Oh, why did I write an unguarded remark?
Why did I forget to take care?
My heart sings with a voice from deep inside, a song full of WHY? and SORROW, open and full of tone and pain and sound and depth and height.
The song soars high and bursts, with a flame of white-hot agony and falls to the earth in showers, like blood red pomegranate seeds.
After, I lie on the compost and it is cold and so I move onto the sand – that strand by the silver, twinkling glints on the waves. Yes, just over there.
The sun isn’t hot. It is clouded with mist and rain I am still cold.
I move inside, by the fire and sit with sleeping cats.
I lie with my man and take my warmth from his kind, gentle love.
I think of other Christmases, in hot lands, with more music and more company.
I remember songs and carols and fly above their sound and I find my younger children and love them with extra warmth and intensity, so that they wonder if there is an angel embracing them from behind, one that they could see from the corner of their eyes.
Yes, I am still here and always will be. I sing you to sleep and read you books and we will take out the glass decorations and hang them on a tree. We will always have lights and warmth and love. Always.