13

the night brings in the clouds so thick they mark the sky empty. even the moon needs a perception break. we leave our fingers in the sky but pace backward three times. the ground is thick with needle thaw, it's not what's falling, it's what fell and took on piling. it is equal parts squish and crunch. it's early still for submerging but we clear the treeline and leave the shore to get to gasping. once you get your lungs in you'll be fine, waterbaby. body becomes a letter to salt, no funny business just a lot to say. the sea, it cares for you, it carries you. it's full sun now, everything but shine has cleared out. a burning shape matches a wearing shape. these are the instructions we follow for an overdue collective weeping: feel warmth down to the root, and then feel everything that comes after that.
                                           i swap tears around a wet circle
                                                              and the circle tears back my dry leaf matter, my sticks bound with tree goo, records the spring depth of my basin, candies my nettle, unlocks all my fairy house doors, and tunes the last of my melting. the circle finds my knots. i am weeping weeping weeping. circle sees my knots. i am weeping weeping weeping. circle knows knot interruption. i am weeping weeping walking. the knots do bleed a little on contact. i am weeping open working at it, circle teases me out of me. i am walking wet-eyes. it's not about untying it's about taking the time. it's about knowing the clear open night comes next, the overholy blanket to hold us all.