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December 15, 2015





Days are brief interludes

between the quiet hands of night,

the earth tilting away from the sun.

Fields lay fallow—only the skeletons

of last year’s harvest exposed,

the bones of the frosted land. 


Pale skies draw us inward

to the place of no speaking, no words—

to stillness where we wait

in the threshold between worlds. 

Here there is the deep sea of ourselves,

the strange fish of our dreams.


This is the place of incubation,

where all appears lifeless and barren,

as if it gestates nothing but space.

Rest in the node between in-breath and out-breath.

You need not do anything, but wait

for the pull of your own north star. 


See it in the sky now? 

It knows your naked beauty,  

your clear vessel thirsting for light.

For even now you are pregnant—

full of the just forming,  the newly given–

the awkward bird of your soul.


Soon she will emerge—first beak, then wing,

until she breaks from the center of the egg

and kisses your life, showing you how

to live inside your own wild skin.



– ©Laura Weaver

first published on 

One Comment leave one →
  1. December 15, 2015 9:15 pm

    I love your writing Beautiful one. Thank you for sharing so eloquenty about solstice time – I feel this in my bones. Love you.

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