The gods might call me She Who Refuses.
I have denied myself several incarnations.
Partial. Wholesale. On commission.
And then I get behind on my walk with the gods, keep fiddling, getting more and more
in the way of their will.
I can not blame them for the discord. I make
my own storms. In the flurries, I freeze,
petrified to take meditative motions of no-thing-ness,
the patience of letting the fates hold my Forward.
When grace doesn’t dig me out of the drifts,
I avalanche.
Self-imposed snow, in season
each moment I forget to check my moral compass.