December
By onemorething
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By now, dormice are already asleep,
and dream of the secrets of a hedgerow,
here, months are as twisted as the curl
of a furred tail and threaded
to a memory of the Eocene
in a remembrance of stone.
A dormouse abandoned daylight
for the sanctuary of midnight over epochs,
and to the earth, a stranger, so
that any descent from the divining rods
of boughs must make them tremble
to their new beds of leaf litter.
And amongst the wishes of hazelnuts,
buried to overwinter, in the dormancy
of a belly of berries after the sweetness
of June's honeysuckle, after the nests
of bark, these dark eyes close to a peace
of rest, oblivious to December's long twilight.
But I have always been afraid of sleep,
as if it carried a curse of the unconscious,
where hours are unmeasured, only
to wake in a halfway house of time
loosened; before awareness, pre-
sentience, and for one frozen moment,
an organism without a self.
Image is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Archibald_Thorburn_Dormice_1903.jpg
https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dormouse1.jpg
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HI Rachel, december can be
HI Rachel, december can be euphoria for some, but as your poem suggests, there's also saddness, the traces of shorter days and longer nights and having trouble sleeping can be a discomfort.
As always some wonderful metaphors in your poem that's always inspiring.
Jenny.
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