Buttered toast and tangerines. Tea today, if you please. Ribbons of dawn festoon under the remnants of an enduring night. I watch light glint under the weighted authority of lingering clouds. In other words, one may be forced to accept what grieves her.
Yesterday's wind bellowed and roared and refused to became background noise. All day my nerves startled at the thudding of deadfall upon the roof. Yes Winter, get it all out of your system. Clear the way for the overdue ending.
Lately, hope is small, like a sparrow's eye. A cold snap brings reluctant flakes.
There is beauty in the incompleteness of it all despite the serration of winter / almost spring / winter.
Gossamer brumes of indigo give way to a filling moon. At the local brewery, he played the blues with an occasional cover tune to distract a disinterested crowd from their conversations about suburban affairs. I milked two black beers before turning towards the night's omniscient ability to give back whatever I have left. And when it was time to go home, it was seen under the flickering street lamp next to a drowsy highway that like the moon, no one person will have all of me. And in the end, the ever unobtainable end, even matter is lost.
I am a believer: what is perceived is not all. The “we” proclaim is not permanent. I am not real.