Winter Blooming
Oh baby bird, fallen so far from your tree. Exposed, helpless, unable to fly. On the ground the only thing left for you is death. How did you fall, little bird? What cruelties are woven into the nest? Sharp twigs hide under soft down. A cuckoo waiting. You were pushed, little bird. By someone who should’ve loved you. Pushed from your home before you even had a chance. You’re blind and mewling but still you grab my hand. Come with me, little bird. You’ll be safe from these winter winds. Come to the manor. You weren’t here long enough to learn to fear me, so take this hand in confidence. All who are lost get their peace in the end.
I find my own peace in my work. I’m a routine, I’m part of a cycle, I’m as rhythmic and meditative as breathing. I’m getting tired though. It’s hard work. Thankless work. I’ve gone on for an eternity, I’m ready for my peace too, but I can’t rest until I find a student. I can teach you, little bird, about peace and bringing the lost ones to it. I’ll teach you to be the hand to hold in the dark.
I found my teacher by wandering aimlessly for ages. I learned the directions eventually. Ride a sunbeam on a hot day and it’ll lead you to the old manor’s garden. If you squint hard enough at the heat waves coming off the brick path, you can see the face of death. She taught me everything I know, holding my hand when we crossed over. I remember her rosebushes and how she always forgot to prune them. I didn’t know the vines could climb so high. They’d choke the house in thick thorn ropes. They only left holes for the door and kitchen window like openings to a tomb. When I came to the garden, I wanted to rest at first. But the roses drew me closer until I pricked myself on their thorns. In August the musk was sickening. She was excess and rot. She could’ve kept the garden in check but my rebellious gardener loved her roses. She told me it was the one thing she’d let stay alive until the brink of autumn. She said when I leave the garden I could take the roses with me as my first spirit.
When I walk, flowers wilt and leaves fall. Fly with a flurry of dried leaves in the crisp breeze and you’ll find the old manor. If you forget to brace yourself against the chill, you’ll see the face of death. Folks like us are feared, but those who work the land know their respects. They understand our cycles and how to travel to the manor. I wait at the end of the harvest season eagerly. I like to think I’m an old friend. I let them collect autumn’s bounty before it all rots, unlike my gardener with her peach groves full of barren branches because the fruit grew too soft and heavy to hang. When I take the last summer blooms, I pry the vines off the house and scrub it clean. Hanging in every doorway, are dull, dried roses. All things turn to dust in the end. It’s quiet here in the manor, but the creaks and groans tell you someone is listening. Peace is the house that feels like a home. Come home, little bird.
I see frost flowering at your feet. Your serene face is blue, but not from the cold. Dark finger marks mottle your delicate throat. I cannot walk you through the garden like my teacher once did, but I can carry you to the old manor. Your head on my chest, warmth long since gone. You’re lucky, you know. Other souls wash up here in barrages of sleet and storm around this time with no one to guide them. The cold bites so deep that even I can feel it in my bones. Does it chill you too? Can you tell the cold metal you last felt apart from the wind that batters us, or did you live so quickly that it’s all the same to you? I’m holding you but you do not need to return the favor. I’ll give you all the time in the world. If you wish to rest, rest. That’s fine. You can roost here, baby bird.
