My psyche’s manor,
candle-lit,
snow-capped hills,
gated in
against a fire
roaring in.

The wise old woman
waits and sits;
she speaks of safety,
preserving peace.

Unconscious contents
shake bronze gates,
so seasons change
beneath the skin.

In a white, vast court
where silence lives,
I’m safe for now —
but this I know:

that my Unknown
will come to Known.

Before the spring,
beneath my snow,
the grass of Me
begins to grow.