Without North Star light, a certain bereavement finds its way into the interstitial facia of my breath.
Winter Solstice brings the shortest day. Dark days, dark nights. The cartography of 2 a.m. indicates a familiar dream whilst wide awake. In the silence one can hear whispering trees and sleeping sheep and the sounds of hushed lips pleading into the slight hollow of this almost known cheek.
Write. Just write.
The creek freezes. Potable water held hostage to what is. Yet I hear its idiolect babbling in the microcosm of life. The aggregate of the world sinks to the bottom; this and other clues while panning for gold.
What happens in the world interests me less. My pride used to laud all over itself for being aware of the global condition of humanity. These days – this day – even malfeasance barely brings my stomach acid to roil. Instead, the realm of my devotion has the borders of butternut squash and washing wood floorboards and soothing the hurts of those who find me near.
but there are always outliers
coils of care
in the moonlight sonata
played for me
Maestro, again. Again.