Dawn breaks on the cabin blanketed in brilliant unbroken snow. Sea of white clasping emerald conifer gems. A blank slate for us to fill with whatever takes our fancy.
Playing like kids in the snow until we’re hot, cold and rosy. Peeling off the isolating layers. Waking the embers from their dozing. Snuggling close to the fire. Exploring each other’s lust.
Free to live a shared fantasy. As winter night falls, silvery moonlight plays on skin. Wolves howling passions release sing. Soaring counterpoint to the warmth within.
As two heart’s find safe rest in the dream cabin in the woods.
Inspired by a comment about snow as blank paper, another comment about seeking new paths, daring to dream new dreams. The winter vistas I’m surrounded with, and the image at The Sunday muse #145.
It’s been mostly poetry lately so I felt like writing prose and flash fiction. Choosing the 100 word length.
Holy Midwinter Night Your long dark cold is hard Lonely stars sparkle and shimmer Dream dust glimmer on all sleeping In house and barn, the dog in the lonely yard Lending light to inky night, hours deep Think toiling late into midnight hours
Vigil kept by the Moon Bathed in her silver boon, as she wanders her silent whir Midwinter night, when the snow glows white painting on pine and fir Inky shadows and bright light, as snow glows white Shimmering stars on roof thatch All dreaming, only Tomten keeps watch
In the snowy night all is silent Gaia sleeping is White blanket over wood and plain Hiding all life Snug in barrows, as out there All is still, all is frozen
Slowly from afar only The murmur of the waterfall Dreamt as much as heard Winters death as slow soughing
To thrumming of deep meaning Tomten listens, half awake and half in a dream Midwinter Night’s eternal seem Giving visions to hear The ebb and flow, life’s echo, of the eternal time stream
Tomten wonders, from where life came and where it’s going Tomten wonders, if Gods or humans where the source of where the world is is flowing
I had a different vision. But the influence of Tomten was undeniable. And I felt the kind, caring gaze of the farmwifes of my childhood. Living in just that type of isolated farm. Learning me old folktales mostly forgot. They would have smiled at my folly. Hugged me. And told me, if I put myself in the attention of the unseen, I’d best be willing to pay my due. So, I sent a message via my muse that all I wanted was to share the wonder of Midwinter, to give Tomten his chance to deep brooding and rest. Without all those Lutheran work ethic lessons.
The poem is a Golden Shovel. The last words of each line are, in order, words from a line or lines taken, another poem. For my piece I choose the first and the penultimate verse of Tomten by Viktor Rydberg. I started with translating them, since I found no translation I thought good enough. Below you’ll find those two verses.
Midwinternight’s cold is hard Stars sparkle and shimmer All sleeping in the lonely yard Deep into midnight hours The Moon wanders her silent whir The snow glows white on pine and fir Snow glows white on roof thatch Only tomten keeps watch
Silent is wood and plain, all life out there is frozen From afar only the waterfall Heard as slow soughing Tomten listens, and half in a dream seem to hear the eternal time stream Wonders, where it’s going Wonders, where the source is flowing
After untold hours reading I decided to keep the Swedish word Tomte. Even Astrid Lindgrens prose version from 1961 is titled “The Tomten”. Simply because there is no equivalent in English. Tomten is neither gnome, goblin, elf or Robin Goodfellow as in this old translation. Tomten might be mischievous or outright revengeful if treated badly. But mostly he was seen as part of the place, a valued knowledgeable farmer, a paragon of Lutheran work ethics.
Today we see Tomten with a red cap, but Tomten of old was not so garishly dressed – then everyone would have seen him all the time. The poems second verse start with – “Stands there so gray by the barn door, gray against the white drift”
There is also the word Nisse, which today is much conflated with Santa’s Elves. Anyhow, a Nisse was so to speak, never the Tomte in charge on a farm, at least in Sweden.
Right now life feels small, cold and lonely for many, and for me. So I tried for some hope, light and life in today’s Advent Calendar poem.
The midwinter darkness has felt exte oppressive lately. The unseasonable warmth keeps the skies grey and foggy rather than the crisp, nipping, sunny air the season should have (unless there’s snowfall of course). Today I read that the instruments in Stockholm and several other cities have measured ZERO sunhours in December.
So a warming climate makes the winter darkness more oppressive, by denying us the few hours of sunlight, robbing us off the white cover, starving us from reflected moonlight. A full moon can make a clear snowy December night brighter than an overcast December midday.
Some days I have hope for a new spring, perhaps next summer without a pandemic looming. A world coming together on the pandemic and the climate. Other days, when the sun has not been seen for more than a week. I feel cold desolation, touch deprivation and failing hope. A world gone to smoking cinders, cascading ecological disaster, all ending in an egotistic whimper.
Not knowing to hope or despair, over the fact that the human race has its destiny in its own hands.
I took a walk earlier today, just to experience the weather turning, temperatures dropped more than ten degrees Celsius in less than an hour. The first taste of winter. As I walked I half composed this piece in my head, while wondering if I could somehow fit it to tonight’s dVerse prompt.
Living alone through the long dark winter No friendly hugs, even considered Suffered untouched through the long dark cold Warm thoughts alone keeps from withering old Cuddly wishes through the long cold season Sublimed into ache, into dreams of sexual completion
Light slowly returning after long dark winter Friendship shows up, unexpected encounter Eyes connect after eons alone Soul rings in rising libido tones Skin on skin, open floodgates in heart Embraced again, all composure fall apart
Spring sun warms after long lonely moons Vision breaks of languid sensual afternoons Hand teasing all the right places Lips leaving fiery passion traces Desire shines clear to minds eye Whole body lusts for a lover between my thighs
I tried to imagine myself telling great-grandchildren about my snow filled childhood winters. I’m quite sure we haven’t had the last white winter, that photo is only four years old, but if we don’t change our ways, the snow-less pitch-dark winter of 2020 will be the norm.
The world according to RedCat 
