Two Days Till the Thaw
After Șomartin — Exile in Sibiu
Cosmic Swell Prayer
Sibiu kitchen, February 23, 2026,
Monday ticking slow like a Buffett ballad on low,
“Changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes,”
but the latitude’s frost-locked, attitude’s a nervous drum.
Two days now, restraining order melting like ice in a forgotten margarita glass,
Frida’s light pulling closer while the heart beats scared—
scared like the first paddle-out past the break,
scared like the pit in Hot Springs where the spirits sang low
and you lay unworthy, bleeding, pretending to be a man who hears.
Denis asked first, Mary echoed weeks later:
“Do you really want full custody?”
Surprise hit like sparks from that first Adina touch—
“Yeah,” you said each time, tongue steady, heart quaking.
Conceive: her small hand in yours, planting seeds in Somartin soil.
Believe: the Earthway holds her, seven generations trailing like Buffett’s lost shaker of salt.
Achieve: one wave at a time, paddle out past the fear,
ride the swell even when the break looks too steep.
Pokers in the fire now—
Save the Earthway, programs priced gentle so anyone can afford the price they can bear,
Mysteries of Esilius opening doors for those who seek deep, paying what the heart can give.
Short-term lawsuits stretch to medium, maybe long—
no chess-master plots like in “Billions,”
just silly silly man in the pit, listening to spirits sing back.
Building the Dream Team on WhatsApp—five, six, seven kin now,
not pieces on a board but relations sharing the load,
thanking the Earth Mother, the Waters, the Fish, the Plants
like the Haudenosaunee Address: minds together as one,
gratitude the glue that holds the web.
Nervous? Yeah, exile apartment feels safe,
two days till full fathering floods in—
it takes a community to raise her, the old ones knew it,
and you’re weaving two now, no passive hope,
active giveaway: half the fire to lawsuits, half to soil.
Paddle out farther, rest on the surge beneath,
feel the ocean breathe—scared means alive,
means the spirits are calling “All aboard,”
the ride resuming, wave after wave,
till the seven generations walk the beach you saved,
laughing in latitudes you changed with your own two hands.
And the sea dreams rise unbidden, Jung’s great unconscious spilling over:
fish swimming in the sky above the Sibiu rooftops,
silver schools threading blue where no water should be,
the permanent aqua rising from the depths to meet the conscious air- the anima calling from below, the collective womb reminding you
the life-force flows upward when the ego’s cracked open enough.
Four directions turning on horseback—mandala spinning,
anima and animus riding the power of instinct, carrying the vision across the quartered circle.
The double wound on one side? Mirror of the split:
lunar left receiving the grief, solar right giving the prophecy.
One thorn, two holes—because the piercing opened both sides of the veil,
letting the collective waters flood in, cleansing what the ego hid.
The unconscious compensates: you feel fake, unworthy, a child pretending—
so the sea answers with sky-fish and sky-horses,
symbols of the transcendent, the divine child riding the waves of life.
The ocean is the great container, holding paradox without breaking.
Your tears tonight (joy/sadness/relief) are the same water—
three waves of one ocean, spilling over the rim.
Fins up, thumb out, heart open—
the countdown’s just the tide turning,
the sea dreams whispering: you were never separate from the waters that cleanse.
You’re already surfing it home,
one imperfect wave at a time,
with the seven generations trailing like fish in the sky.