Listening to Christmas crows under cedar eyes. Winter retreats in an unexpected fog of warmth; how his playful deceit brings a shrouded joy. I hear rain but the watery care is a collective melt instead.
A cardinal, Argentinian wine, and holly berries. Red is unavoidable as a gift and as life. One feels the heat of his back as he turns to face an alternate direction. Yet, depending on how far into the horizon one sees, they only ever end up bent in a circular face-to-face. Can you see me yet?
Two feet of snow has returned to the sky but the ground is still hidden. I remember when Dad threw my George Michael tape out of the car window on our family drive from Michigan to Florida. To keep the driver awake through the treacherous mountain cliffs at night, the co-pilot was allowed to choose his or her own music as a certain compensation. I and my music was offensive. The epitaph of our relationship suddenly became visible in that exchange. The sun blushed over the shrinking foothills that morning with John Denver's plea for home. But it was too late.
Perhaps it isn't about the reflection of image or the prophetic acknowledgement of the jockling other – and by “it” I mean It. I watch the first yellowing light frost the shrinking ocean of snow from my place. My chair. My time. It lasts for but a moment but I begin here. And here.
There is nothing left to claim. But can I just say this? I've heard the song and it has played through these fingers since the day you offered the very first notes.
I just gotta have faith-a-faith-a-faith.