Snow-thunder breaks the silence.
It's hard to settle into defeated ideas. Every season has birthed a renewal of “what-if.” Years have passed and I have been held back due to the lessons not learned. What-if is now being buried by each frozen expression, piling higher and higher into what-is.
Maybe it isn't the stars that lead lovers to croon and wail. Perhaps is it the darkness between the them that pulls the heart, thread by cardiac thread, into the endless blackness of being.
We walked around in millionaire's shoes for the day and it was revolting. My fingers traced the gold leafed wallpaper in the bathroom and the decisive judgement would not flush. The filmy taste of rich republican rot coated my mouth, and now their monied sentiments hang like ghouls in my dreams. Trump knows our language. Trump will not spend where it isn't necessary. Trump will militarize our borders and keep us safer.
Like the Degas on the wall or the blue, Jasperware vase with Greek figures pouring water and playing harps, we couldn't approach anything in the home. So we sat in the round sipping exotic tea as I swirled thoughts about how much I have yet to let go.
Winter is good for letting things go. Seasons often rob one of choices by freezing the river or covering the verdant vines with the purification of Now.
And it is on this white page of immediate snowfall that I am unbinding even love.
January, it is you I have been lost within for an entire existence.
Your fresh tracks constantly reveal the magic of living.
Yet now, I see my own prints sparkling in the blue dawn.
Alone towards together.