The 4 a.m. crack of winter thunder interrupts the rain's whispery conversation. I thought of the stroll the nurse and I had through the hospital's sterile labyrinth. We talked about the weather and she laughed satisfyingly hard when I describe this winter as “hormonal.”
Dawn gives way to islands of snow, fading. The dog's toys have surfaced and the walking paths are free to snake around the entirety of the yard. Patterns and cycles and cadences all make sense if one is allowed to zoom out far enough. I wonder how often we've met – January and I. How many times has it melted when the world was meant to be frozen?
Water with lemon and black bean soup. In the comfortable cabin of my woods, I would live on soup and bread. Only the one who wants to be there is there – to read and walk and play into the cedar-scented sleep. We walk the whole way. Thus this softer, sweeter place. The mind leaks towards lower ground.
These days hang. How full and broken a heart becomes when discovering the missing piece has wings! What I long to hold, even but for a moment.
write / light / flight
All day my fingers talk a mean game. One day there will be nothing to compose because It will have passed clean through. Touched. Felt. Believed.
The rain has lasted all day. And I am grateful. For all of it.