• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 11
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Winter sets her altar a little
early this year,
laying her intentions bare
before Autumn even has the chance
to shift.

At her table, she fusses—
boots laced tight,
cardigan buttoned to the collar—torn
between expectation and

avant-garde. It's ritual after all,
so she strips down

to the essentials. A soul, ripe, handpicked
from the high bough—nourishment

for darkening days. A smile, drawn
from the thinnest joy, pliable

yet bittersweet. And last, for you: the anxiety
harbored in your belly, that tickling
season in the making,

fondled in her hands like clay—the still life
of you,
the life still in you—.

for making of it
what you must