Ginger tea to settle the truths my stomach cannot handle. When the past shook my hand it felt delicate and more worn than I had remembered. I used to speak of how history no longer exists and therefore, it only has residence if the mind allows. It all sounds so very comforting until the present moment, the-this-is-all-there-is now, contains the convergence of what was and what is – a living, breathing moment with the DNA of a million years and eight hundred tons of stardust. Now and not just now.
At 4 a.m., raging whispers of snowfall spill the secrets of a sleepless night. Our rot now rests under two feet of unhurried suffocation. The tree limbs weaken and camber. A steady march of tiny flakes changes the landscape into pristine treachery. My lake effect.
What if there is only ever words? Does not the river flow with or without them? Yet another metaphor beginning a trail that it cannot finish. One wonders if wanting ruins the moment. Leftover cake sits on the counter because apparently one really can't always have cake and eat it too! Please send coffee, won't you?
Icy daggers hang unemployed from garages with no sun to refract. No point to reach. The birds don't visit anymore on account of the motor that used to keep the creek running has been removed. I'm pissed about it and add the affront as another proof that desires call after their lost twin of suffering. The awareness of the futility of want reteaches the lessons I was born to learn.
Today, a fire and cooking and the assembly of homemade hot chocolate to give as gifts. And I cloister under the storm and find a hundred ways to give thanks. But I miss the warmth of sea-sand at dawn. And the birds sharing a drink and bath outside my window. And eating cake.