Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Christmas Talk

(I am a Mormon. this is a talk- like a sermon that members of the congregation give during the service- that I'm going to be giving next Sunday. yes, it's funny a parts. I live in Berkeley, we like funny talks.)

Merry Christmas!

We say that phrase approximately 1 bazillion times in the month of December, and it means different things to different people.  Presents, family, religion, hope, friendship, cheesy movies, store lines.... the delightful (mostly) chaos of the season.
To me, it also means a time of Thanksgiving. It is a time to be grateful for God, for Jesus, for the fact that my family is wonderfully free of feuds and most fighting( aside from the Christmas when my brother attacked me for humming silent night. ) For the little miracles that happen not just in cheesy, adorable holiday movies but in real life. For the smiles on children’s faces as they line up to meet the one and only Santa Claus at church parties and concerts. Christmas means something different to everyone- or a lot of somethings, but to me it means Thanksgiving.

We give thanks on Christmas  for so many things- friends, family, God. We give thanks for the birth of our savior, for the gift of His life, for the hope that He brings.
There is something else that I give thanks for- the commoners of Canterbury in the mid 1600s. Wait what, who why? Let’s back up.

During the English Civil war, the two factions were the royalists and the roundheads- the roundheads were mostly puritan and led by Oliver Cromwell, a Puritan.
The Puritans were very religious and not in a good way. they were the shove their religion down everyone’s throats kind of people. And they hated a lot of things, including Christmas.
Christmas was both too pagan- originating in a pagan festival called saturnalia held at midwinter- and too Catholic- the name being “Christ’s Mass” and being associated with feasting and singing and celebration- something the puritans discouraged. And by discouraged I mean hated. And banned.

So in the 1640’s, Christmas was in peril in England. It had already been banned in the puritan run colonies in the New World and  in Scotland. Though the commoners  and king mostly loved Christmas, those gaining power most certainly did not. It was an excuse to get drunk, they said, and the holiday was being abused- and really ought not be a holiday because it’s insulting to guess when Christ was born and Christ would be offended by singing and merrymaking and joy. Right. Because Christ was so against singing and merrymaking that one of his miracles was to turn wine into water to ensure a proper reverent quiet at a wedding. I’m still not sure the Puritans ever read the new Testament. They were awfully fond of hating people and not so big on loving others.

So Laws were passed, Christmas was to be a working day. And though the non puritan population of England didn’t like it, they had little choice but to go along with it, but still celebrate in the confines of their own homes and have goose and exchange small gifts- the way we still do today, though our celebrations tend to be louder, gifts tend to be bigger and I’m not sure I’ve ever had goose, my family mostly has chicken. Or ham. 

But this wasn’t enough for the puritan parliament, because people were still celebrating Christmas, particularly in London and in Canterbury, so more laws were passed. Not only was Christmas a work day, it was a day for fasting. And since this was in England, Christmas was THE feast day. Imagine being told that you were to fast on thanksgiving, by the government. How many of you would listen? People still had their Christmas goose that year, but not as many, and windows were shuttered. There was very little celebration- no carolers singing for figgy pudding, no church services except for those Catholics that secretly practiced their religion in rented rooms and barns, or if they were very lucky, their cathedrals.

But still, Christmas was quietly celebrated. Children still woke to small tokens from St. Nicolas- or as the puritans had named him before trying to do away with him altogether, Father Christmas.
For the commoners, Christmas was their only freeday, their only break from hard labor, and they would cling to it as though it were life itself.
The Puritans were not happy.

So in 1647, Christmas was banned outright- militias would roam on the 25th and anyone caught celebrating Christmas in any way would be punished- Christmas could not be allowed to continue. It was Pagan, it was Catholic, it was unholy and an offense to God, so said the puritans. So it was made law- Christmas was illegal.
The commoners were unhappy.
Jeff Guinn, the author of three christmas related historical fantasies summarized the attitude and opinion these nonpuritan folk held about christmas in his book “ How Mrs. claus saved Christmas.” In his book, Mrs. Claus herself- called Layla- has words with Oliver Cromwell, the man who at the time was the leader of parliament and thus England. Cromwell explains how evil and unholy christmas is, to which Layla responds:

"You have told me what Christmas is not. Now allow me, sir, to tell you what Christmas is. Christmas is a day when we can reflect in our words and deeds the same generosity of spirit that moved our Lord to send us his son. It is a day when, for a few fleeting hours, every man, woman, and child can remember all the joyful things in their lives instead of being worn down by problems and hardship. It is a day when, for a little while, there are no masters and servants, no rich and poor, just human beings equal in their love of Jesus and in their respect for one another. In short, Mr. Cromwell, Christmas is Holy."

And Holy Christmas is. This I believe with all my heart, more than I ever believed in Santa, or his reindeer. This we as a church believe- while we know that the 25th of December is not Christ’s birthday, it is a day when we give thanks for Christ, for our friends and families- of blood or of choice or of church.
And this the people of England believed.
And so on december 25th 1647, non puritans across England staged- without consulting neighboring cities or towns- massive protests, the largest occurring in Canterbury. Called a Riot, it consisted of more than 10,000 people. They marched into town, sang carols and asked shopkeepers to close for the day in honor of Christ’s birth. No one was hurt. The protestors kept peace and celebrated their holiday.
The puritans were not happy, but they were wise. They relented. While they would never agree that Christmas was holy, they knew that they did not and never would have the support of the people when it came to the holiday.
It took many years for Christmas to become what it once was- a loud day of celebration and feasting and caroling and joy. But it was, at least, saved.

Christmas came back to Scotland eventually, and to America.
Perhaps Christmas in all the world was not threatened, but it was threatened, and it was saved. For that I am thankful for the commoners of Canterbury in 1647, who risked jail and worse for their beloved holiday.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

Woman Who Waged War on a Child.

I walked in the room and saw her
Mom, how could you not have told me
she was coming?
With which white hair and dark eyes
Those eyes full of scorn
And that smile,
the Woman who waged war on a child
is here
Mom, how could you not have told me?
Our eyes lock and I flinch because it's been seven years and I still have yet to heal
My scars are still raw with my
recent diagnosis
Even with the happy pills last June clings in my memory
When the Dark over took me
Just like that fall, October
Oh God, let it be over, I prayed at night
but it wasn't, thanks to the angel-faced
daughter of
the Woman who waged war on a child
they both did so gladly.
And to hear their names- her name
and to see their faces- her face
and hear their voices- her voice
Brings blood to the surface of my scars
tears to over bright eyes
Acid churning in my stomach
Mom, how could you not have warned me?
Because she's here
where I thought I was safe
and she looks at me, cold glares, searching eyes, dark eyes
I cannot stay here, I have to
Fly into the night but I can't
I'm trapped like before
and before is coming, my past haunts my future
Fragil trust once betrayed is weakened forever
no easy thing to mend a heart
broken by
the Woman who waged war on a child
and did so gladly.
A war of lies and words
12 year old's reputation ruined
for petty whims and cast aside friendships.
The Darkness came then
and it comes now
and I just want to go home
and get as far from here and her as I can
Mom you knew she was here,
How could you not have warned me?
I'm alone as alone as that October
Now huddled under a desk in a dark room
remembering and knowing
that I can't face anyone.
Because they'll say,
'forgive and forget'
'It was seven years ago'
'let it go'
'move on'
'she's changed'
because it's not a matter of forgiveness
I'd forgive
if I could stop remembering
the pain
losing everything
that she waged war on a child
and did so gladly
malicious joy in destroying me.
"move on" they say
but they don't understand how close I came
to ending it all
because of the Woman who waged war on a child
and with her jackel daughter did so gladly
tearing with claws and teeth to rip me to shreds
of myself, limp and tattered.
The minute our eyes lock
I am back in her living room as her family
wages war on me
and I am tattered and torn
and worn through.
I can't do this
I cannot face
The Woman who waged war on a child
Mom, how could you not have told me,
So I could have stayed safe and hidden and as
whole as a band of sewn together streamers can be?
in this lower case darkness I tremble
because a look at her reminds me, pulls me back into that upper case Dark.
And I can't escape
will never be free of
The Woman who waged war on a child.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Hope is an Orange thing

Hope is an Orange thing

   Hope is an Orange thing
    Vibrant, refusing to be dulled

 Like Amber, long forgotten
         Gone grey and clouded
                ‘Till Darkness falls
        And when shined, polished
It Glow-gleams

Like a Candle’s light, flicker
        Seeming so small, so frail
               Until a Storm comes
      And that small light is
All that is left in the Universe

Like Autumn leaves
       Clinging despite the cold
             A reminder
       That soon the sorrow will pass
And life will go on, in Light

Like the Sun’s rise
        Promising that Dawn is here
               At Last
      The cold night no longer rules
All shall be made Safe

Hope is an Orange thing
 Vibrant, even when muted
A Strong thing, bright
 Saying, softly
“I Live On.”

Monday, November 26, 2012


For Magpie 145
I'm curled up in the bright red chair by the window.
It's raining out, it has been for most of a week.
At least, that's what the soft one says, every morning as she prepares our breakfast.
Kibble for me, bacon for her. I usually get half her bacon. She purrs at me, though, so I know she's not mad.
The soft one smells like this chair, even though it's mine, she sits in it sometimes, on cold nights. I join her, curled up on her knees instead of the soft cushion. It is not as comfortable, but her warmth makes up for it. The soft one is very warm and bright, with fur that comes off and I can sleep in, in the worn-fur basket. I like that basket almost as much as I like my chair, by the window.
I can see the garden from behind my twitching tail. It's very wet out there, no birds to catch or squirrels to chase, just green green green and grey.
Inside is bright, with my chair and the soft one's furs and pictures on the wall and fire in the hole.
Fire is not for me, the soft one says, and when I was a kit she hissed at me if I went too near.
Fire and I listen to each other, though, my purrs, his cracks and spits. It warms me, and I do not touch it.
There is no Fire to hiss and purr to today, the soft one is Out. She says this to me, "Well, I'm going Out" and click clack shuts the door.

I do not know why anyone would want to go Out into the rain and leave this nice, soft red chair, so snug and warm.

Saturday, November 10, 2012

After Letter 1

Based on the book After by Francine Prose.

It's good, creepy and awesome.

From the Journal of Sara Dale:

 They came during science today. Mr. Mishu had been about to mix the chemicals when they came in and all hell broke loose. Some of the younger kids were crying, the 9th graders. I was too afraid, too in shock, to cry. We were the good ones, right? The ones who obeyed every new rule, every new policy, who read only what was asked, did what little work we had, kept our mouths shut as they stole our rights- in the name of keeping us safe. They made us leave everything, but I saved this scrap of paper and sketching pencil.  Is this how people feel during evacuations during wars? One minute home, afraid but home, the next on a train or bus to the unknown? To death?

  All I know is we are going west. Mom must be so afraid. Surely someone heard the more resistant kids shouting and called the cops, right? Writing this calms me, but not enough. I wish Geric was here, to hold me and say everything would be ok, but he was one of the first to go. Sent away to some detention center because of an essay he wrote. Isn’t that breaking the first amendment? I wish we’d covered more in history, but after the shooting, well…

We just crossed state lines. I remember an old mystery I read--- this is a kidnapping. My mother never would have signed anything! This is against the law! I wish that just saying that would make them stop. It won’t- words of a child are powerless against the-wait Why is the government helping? I see police among the men and women on this bus, watching for- oh no! they see me writing!
Whoever finds this, know that Pleasant Valley high students are being taken to their dooms- tell our parents our final goodbyes. Crap, he’s coming, what do- the windo~

Sunday, November 4, 2012


Magpie 142

They never tell you quests can be boring. Arriani thought, staring into space. When she'd joined Kallin the Warrior's traveling party, she'd expected quests, and they'd had one- nothing more than the tiniest errand boy quest of finding a runaway girl- just a normal girl, like Arriani herself. Not even a princess! But a quest was a quest, and if Kallin the Warrior was leading it, She'd thought they would have some adventure. But no. They'd found the girl, gotten her away from her nasty aunt and to a new home, and were just wandering. Kallin said adventure would find them. Arriani wished it would hurry up.

She got up to check the horses- she was alone in the camp- Kallin and Zara the Shieldmaiden were in town getting supplies and seeing if there were any quests to be had, the other members were hunting, but Arriani, as the only member of the party with any knack for animals(or cooking, as it turned out) was  to stay with the horses and prepare supper. One of the horses, a bay cob, lipped her shirt and headscarf, and she laughed.
This was the part in the story, she thought, where bandits would attack and she'd fend them all off with her glaive alone- but not a twig snapped, and not even a squirrel came to steal nuts from the packs.

Bored, bored, bored. Arriani slumped against the rock outcropping that served as the camp's lookout and sighed, her knees up and arms dangling. She checked her scry stone for danger- nothing. She touched the Sight pendant around her neck and stared into the shadows of the trees- sunset wouldn't come for an hour yet, but it never hurt to use a little magic. Nothing but squirrels, keeping their distance. Bored, bored, bored. She half dozed, until-
"Arriani?" It was one of Kallin's oldest friends, a legend himself, Rasime. His face was scarred from years of quests.
"What is it?" the girl asked, getting to her feet. He probably had meat for the stew. Bored, bored, bored. What was the point of bringing Gran's teak and Isani steel glaive and knowing how to use it, if all she did was cut meat and keep the horses from running off?

Rasime stopped her as she walk to the cook fire. "No. You carry that pretty pigsticker. Can you wield it, or is it just for show?" his voice wasn't harsh, but neither was he teasing her.

"I can use it, elsewise Kallin would have brought along some other mage, a better one, who could join in the fights," If there were any to be had she thought but didn't say. "Why?"
"Zara's sent word-" Rasime pulled on the spelled communication pendant he wore. "There are some nasty men in the village, looking for that girl we helped. Kal and Zar need a hand or two. It won't be much, but it's a skirmish all the same. Fetch Sir Kilona's sword, she left it behind, she always does, fool Lady Knight, and follow me. We've got ourselves a real and true adventure now- Seems our runaway's of importance to someone high up."

Arriani froze. This was it, her adventure, a real adventure, to protect and fight villains by the sides of heroes!
Rasime sighed. " Today, youngling. Goddess's Tears, it's always the same with you new questers. Grab the gear and let's go."
Finally, finally, finally- excitement!

Monday, October 29, 2012


Magpie tale 141
He kissed me in the rain, my hair loose and wet, my face pink with the raw wind. The sky was misty and dreech, and we were all alone in the streets, grey and dark and wet. But I wasn't cold. I was warm, pressed against him, our doubled heartbeats a song that rose into the air and echoed in my ears. the rain thudded against the ground, heavy and strong, cold, and I knew- I loved him.

We were walking and laughing in the rain, dancing through puddles and moaning half heartedly about wet socks and soaked shoes, thinking of hot chocolate and warmth. He was warmth, and me as well, and we clung together as we walked, pausing to look up in to the pearled sky that let loose with rain and wind that rushed the leave to the ground in whispers.

He kissed me then, for all the world to see, though the world wasn't there to see it, and maybe it was the rain, the wet, but I swear there was something new about this kiss, something magic. I held him and he held me, my leaky umrbella forgotten, and kissed him back. The rain beat down but we, we flew.

Friday, October 26, 2012

Solitude is an Empty Porch Swing

Solitude is
An empty porch swing
Rocking back and forth
In the wind.

Tap. Tap. 
One shoe pushes the ground
Just hard enough
To go faster than
The breeze.

The girl waits
In silence
Unsure of why.

A bell tolls the noon hour
But she sits
Still as still.

the Outside is empty
Coated with snow
And dead rose bushes

She doesn’t care
Her swing
back and forth
in Rhythm with her breath.

As the wind toys 
With her hair
And the snow
And the rose petals, brown with frost.

Solitude is all she craves
for the Silence
and the Wind
and the empty porch 
Are the best of

Sunday, October 21, 2012

My very own

Magpie tales 140

I have a dollar in my pocket.
It's not crisp, not new, but old, worn, crumpled.
But it's mine, my very own, to do with as I please.
My little hand creeps down to the pocket, to squeeze my dollar with five year old fingers.
I take it out to look at it, memorize it.
There is ink, dark, dark green so it's almost black, and places worn away so it's only just the color of grass.
A man's face, not smiling but not frowning either. He looks very stern, like Daddy, only Daddy's hair is black, not white.
And on the back is a pire-uh... pire-uh...Pire-uh-mid! Only it's not done and there's a triangle of light with an Eye floating in the sky above it. God's eye? I'll ask Daddy, he knows EVERYTHING.
And the number. 1. One. Oh En Ee. One.
That's a dollar, one hundred whole pennies worth, all mine, all for me, I can buy whatever I want with it.
I could save it and buy a new doll, or maybe even a pony, but that would take lots of dollars and I only have one. It's not new and crisp, but it's mine, to do with as I please, Mommy said.
She said that means I can do whatever I want with it. I could give it away or keep it close.
I don't know what I'll do with it.
but it's a hundred whole pennies, a whole dollar, my very own.

Saturday, October 20, 2012


A Hero is... someone who does the right thing, even at the cost of his or her own life, status, wealth, and so on. A Hero is someone who sees darkness in the world and tries to change it, even if they can't do much. More importantly, though, a hero doesn't quit. Maybe they can't save the world, or fight evil... but they don't stop. They don't say, " I can't, I won't, find someone else." ( Or if they do, they change their minds and fight on anyway.) Of course, it doesn't always come to that." In the real world," to quote a favorite novel( Squire by Tamora Pierce), " there aren't many places without any light." There aren't many Evil Overlords and there aren't any magical Prophecies... but there are still heroes. Some unknown, others unsung and unremembered. Some were heroes for dying so that others might live, others for standing up for the rights of others, risking not death but beatings, jail, and public scorn. Still others are even simpler heroes- schoolyard vigilantes that guard the small from bullies, or a mother who reminds her child how special they are.


Fog creeps through my yard, my home, my fantasy land. Thick and soft, like a wool blanket, it settles, but keeps shifting, never quite at rest. Unlike that wool, though, it’s not warm, but cold. Clean. Fog is crisp, and smells of air and water and ice, magic. there is something about fog that carries with it mystery, magic, enchantments. It swallows things up, and lets things appear, wreathed in grey and mist. It grants an aura to anything in it, silver tinged light. Fog is beautiful, in its soft, quiet way, not showy like sunbursts. Gentle. It creeps along the hills, like a cat, stalking the world, holding the trees in an embrace, holding the world.

I've Learned the World

I learned a lot from fairy tales. My earliest memories are of curling up on my dad’s lap, begging for “ The Little girl Sold with the Pears” for the billionth time. And I’ve learned from them, more than just how a story sounds, or how the miller will always have three daughters- I’ve learned Truth from them. Not truth, things that seem to be and maybe are, or things we assume, but Truth,  something solid, capital letter T Truth. And while I learned a lot of it as a kid, It’s not until now that I think I understand what I learned.

I’ve learned that things work out. Not always right away, like in Italo Calvino’s “The Slave Mother”, where the farmer’s wife spends most of her life a slave and miserable, but is in her old age at last reunited with her husband and sons. Sometimes the happy ending doesn’t come like we think it should.  The little match girl of Hans Christian Andersen’s tale dies, but is warm and safe and home- in heaven. That doesn’t stop the little kids from crying or telling Daddy to “tell it right”, but when I look back, I see that it’s true. Life isn’t always easy, and sometimes things don’t work out on this planet. But they will end well, if not in this life, then in the next. I don’t think that I understood that as a child, not in so many words. Still, the idea that everything working out was comforting, and something I clung to, and probably always will.

I’ve learned how to tell a story. I know that they begin, grand as a ball, with those famous words, “once upon a time,” or else as soft as a mother’s prayer for a child. I’ve learned that everything starts, somewhere, somewhen. Fairy tales taught me that there’s a middle, a trial, a challenge, a dragon to slay and a princess- or a prince- to save. Fairy tales taught me that  everyone faces hardship, and you can’t just run away from them. I’ve learned that sometimes, it’s not a princess the hero saves. Sometimes, it’s yourself you have to rescue. Fairy tales showed me that I could be my own knight in armor, my own brave maiden chasing down the north wind to find her beloved, if only I believed in myself. I’ve learned that there are endings- endings that are beginnings, endings that hint at story left untold. Because nothing really ends in the world- things change, things transform, things even seem to end- but there is always something beyond “ happily ever after.”

I’ve learned that there is darkness. Good and evil are complex. Any five year old can tell you that Billy shoved her and made her cry, or that in church she learned that before the world, there was someone that didn’t like God, and he was evil. But darkness is a strange thing, and as we grow, we try to see people as gray, not black and white, and before long, we try to see it all as gray. Fairy tales taught me, long before I met my first bully, that there are some people that don’t care. There are wicked stepmothers and greedy coal sellers and evil princes that turn into dragons and try to eat you- adults that are cruel out of spite or anger, people who seem nice until you cross them, and then you’ve made a life long enemy. But more than that, Fairy tales taught me that there is light. That there are kind serving maids and good Faeries that will bless you for doing good- that there are people that do good for the sake of good, people that will be your friend. I’ve had trust issues since I was small, and found friends in the pages of books, but fairy tales have reminded me to take a chance.

Fairy tales have taught me about the world, about the people and the nature of people that live in it. Fairy stories have taught me about the important things in life- friendships, love, loyalty, goodness, courage. I have learned that there is darkness and wrongness in the world, but that we can fight it. I have learned about beginnings and endings. But mostly, I have learned about myself. Fairy tales hold the most complex ideas- good versus evil, the powers of love and trust, endings not being endings so much as changes- and simplify them, enough so that children can understand them, or start to. Fairy tales have taught me Truth, about the world, and about myself.

Pokemon book

Preface: This story is floating around on the Internet. I posted it. It's mine, I swear.

When I was 7 years old, I had a Pokemon themed birthday party. One of my gifts was a book, The Official Pokemon Handbook. I took it everywhere, and pretended I was a pokemon trainer. Just before my 8th birthday, I brought it with me to school for show and tell. It was stolen out of my desk at lunch. I was heartsick.

On my 18th birthday, I found 50 cents on the ground. I decided I’d take a look in the public Library’s second hand book shop to see if I could find a fun gift for myself at lunch. On the 50 cent book rack, I spotted a familiar blue spine- a paperback copy of the Official Pokemon Handbook. I bought it on the spot. What a treat! I’d loved this book as a kid. I started walking back to school, when I paused. Just the intro, i decided. I’d read the Intro, then I’d go. I sat down on the bench.

I opened it to the first page. 
a picture of a Pokedex. “ Pokemon license. This is to certify that.......has been officially recognized as a Pokemon trainer by the Pokemon League.”
I started to cry. because the line wasn’t blank. I knew it had been a used book, that it wasn’t new. But I had not expected what was there. In very familiar childish scrawl, were four letters. A name.

My name.

In her hands she holds the Sun

Hope bubbles up from dimness
Draped in loose, bright orange silk
Bursting free to dance away, singing.

Hope flies across the field
Her sunspun cotton dress twirling
As she skips across the dew drops.

Hope turns towards the forest
Amber jewelry glittering on every finger, hem, sleeve
And waves for me to follow.

Hope stops, sudden short, at the cave’s mouth
Yellow skirts dulling to grey
As she falls to her knees, silent.

Despair creeps through the void
Midnight velvet clinging to her form, tight
holds out her hand to Hope, urging.

Despair struts, taunting in her domain
Onyx gemstones flashing at her throat 
Beckoning the fallen onward.

Despair waits, circling the forest
Cloak of shadows wavering
She moves to strike.

Despair crows in the cave
Shawl of darkness wrapped ‘round her
seizing with clawed hands, dragging Hope down.

Hope weeps in the darkness
clothed in tattered rags of light
A single beacon flares.

Hope rises, facing Despair in the mists
Glowing gown, full of orange, red, yellow, radiant as flame
In her hands she holds the sun.

Rain call

I press my face to the cool glass
and watch the rain
streaking down from clouds
as grey as stone,
but lighted.
The rain is beautiful
and the wind that catches
in the chimneys and branches
a low call, so sad
I look, and see
no one
and in stockinged feet,
open the door.
It's cold out
and the damp creeps up
numbing my feet
but I smile,
shoulders back,
eyes closed,
face to the sky.
In my mind I am beautiful
as the rain, tiny droplets
pelts my skin,
I am free
like the wind that pulls
at thick hair and soul.
I am singing
like the rain and the wind
and the moving clouds
together harmonic.
I am
a girl, in stockinged feet
in the rain.

Friday, October 19, 2012


Magpie 139


There is a Light in the window
golden, it spills out into the cold, the dark.
It calls me," Come home, come home
where you are safe and loved,
where you are warm and all is kindness, all is peace."
I look to the light, yearning for it
and the little house where it gleams
but with each step through the murk
I falter, chased by shadow.
I want to come home, be warm, be safe, be loved.
Even as I stumble, the Light does not flicker.
It does not falter.
It waits for me, a beacon in my forest,
spilling from windows that I have looked out of all my life,
calling me home, until the day
When I will find myself a part of that golden glow
a part of the candle flame that beckons the weary
welcomes the worn and tattered
all those who have flickered, faltered, fallen
calling to them,"Come home, come Home."