Everything wakes softer with a dog sigh and new snow. But it's been twenty days without moon or stars or sun. Only a little pulse remains and it's hard to do anything but curl up in bed to keep it safe.
January passes her child bride off to February, and his icy hand slips up her skirt. He chews his scotch first, which is a kindness only unto himself. And just like that, a man in charge takes down the entire world.
The book I want to read is under the therapy lamp so it can raise the light higher – like a bible as a doorstop or a cookbook as a dog pillow. Winter wraps me in a cement vest that has no zippers or ties. One step forward. Rest. Repeat.
A woodpecker meters tall tales, commissioning a snowy codicil here and there to float to the earth. My breathing falls in line with his drumming. A moment soothed.
We guessed at far I would have to drive to find full days of sun. Why can't I adapt? The birds crowd the feeder and squirrels grab fallen bounty from the ground. Rabbits, opossum, and deer; all remain.
Neither holy nor wise. Yet now, even my work cannot be completed. The withered shoots of hasta blooms poke at the sky, even after being buried and reburied a dozen times. Mental gravity playing games.
Curried red lentils with spinach, over brown rice. I feel the heat all the way down and use the bowl to warm my hands. We use more bowls than plates around here, that's for sure. Does the president know that he is raping the world with a smile on his face? The religious are asleep, even in their anger. He am I...and I hate him.
A logomachy of the mind, no? Or is it more than that? My nose bleeds easily these days so I carry tissues waded in my pocket, along side the trust of anyone in command. Lake effect snow marks the trail from Lake Michigan inland – water, sky, crystal, me. In the end, it is I who needs to see it another way.