A winter solstice poem: Liminal Space

The longest night,
a velvet pause between breaths—
the liminal space where shadow and light
press palms against the thin veil.
You are the traveler,
feet steady on frost-laced ground,
a question in the stillness: What now?

Winter’s chill is a house~
its windows fogged with longing,
its hearth aglow with the quiet,
persistent ember of your becoming.
This is not the end,
nor the beginning,
but the sacred middle,
where roots drink deeply in the dark.

You rearrange the furniture of your heart,
making room for the unseen guests,
grief curling at the corner like a faithful cat,
creativity leaning against the doorway,
its hands dusted with potential.

The solstice whispers of resilience,
its breath the sweet ache of stillness.
This darkness is a lover,
seducing your senses with what it conceals~
the taste of uncertainty,
the scent of pine carried by the wind,
the sound of your own heart
pounding against the vast unknown.

And as the earth begins her turn,
as light edges back into the folds of time,
you remember:
the longest night holds the greatest promise,
the seed of dawn waiting
to bloom in the house of your soul.