Icelandic strait jackets have been my abode
Locked into winter, emotional cold 
Huddled in rags and leftover scraps
Cast off. Yet skirting life’s golden cup.

Seasons and tides are finally done
Loosening layers of seaweed and scum
Hinted at only in long ago dreams
Time took its time with a soul much marooned.

Ice finally melting, now roseate dawn
brings promise of cloves twisting cinnamon sticks
In hot, sweetened teacups and sourdough bread
From kitchens of silver unstained from the past.

While feasting on spices and curries by day
Ebb flows of harsh feelings pulled up by the moon
Relieve my sore arms, limbs tightened in vise
Of long ago wounds now bathed in rich balm.

I drink of the cup once promised that child
In falling down mansions of lilacs and death
Though bloody the fingers from layers of chill
They’re warmed by my teacup. So drink it, I will.