The weaver wears the night like a cape
and twirls the stars into her hair.
Her lips still boast of
a goddess’ curse,
a remnant of her mother’s pride.
The weaver spins the stories of old,
bright tales of rainbows bold
and gods more cruel than man.
Pallas sits in parlors,
her patron now,
but sins of pride
not even time
Posted in Fiction
I don’t understand how people do New Years resolutions. Not because of commitment or follow through.
I’m just so tired after the holidays. I spent all my hustle and then some on making a Merry Christmas.
And it being winter doesn’t help. All winter does is make me want to hibernate, and make me grumpy that I cannot.
So when do I make my decisions on my goals for the new year? Spring, mostly. Sometimes I do it on my birthday (since we are already counting my years that way), but thematically Easter works better. All the new life, the rebirth.
My New Year’s resolution is to spend my winter dreaming, and my spring blooming.