With spring's decision, an unfastening. The melt matters, Poet. Can you dare to come closer to that which is so tired of being held back? Just blindfold me already. It is the only way to sense the peace of what is given. Yes, I'm talking about you. I'm talking about the world.
The dog and I are back to walking at dawn. Unsullied light. Yet at the moment of acceptance, it no longer reveals salvation. So then, it is just putting one foot in front of the other, breathing the layers of existence as if there is life to be had.
This is not melancholy. I've thought it through and I'm done limiting perception.
Maybe there is hand holding. Maybe there is mind-melding. Maybe there are miles of aching shoulders and river-numbed ankles. Maybe there is dialogue and poetry and companionship in the knowing. . .
But I am repainting the colonial fencing in a glistening shade of gray. No longer will black and white border the territory that remains unclaimed.