White on white on white – I shuffle up the street and notice all the windows winking icicle eyelashes my way. It is easy to think that winter is softening after spending all day in the greenhouse, planting, cutting, and eating dirt. Yet still, snow falls on snow. And ice grows from soffits and spigots. In single digit temperatures, the snow squeaks under my boots as I force sore muscles to move into that which is difficult. Maybe there is something to the rejection of comfort. Maybe there are many things to reconsider. The road barely rises, but it turns and turns and turns.
The writing lately oozes like blackstrap molasses – darker, thicker, slow in coming. But by the time it reaches the tongue, it satisfies with a bittersweet melt. How else is winter endured except for the imaginings of crocus or fresh-picked blueberries or a meeting on that old trail you always used to talk about? Jacket on sweatshirt on t-shirt on bra.
The chickadee percolates on the heavy pine branch, knocking off snow here and there. He sees me seeing him, at the table the with tea and books and tissues. I asked him where the cardinals are lately but his response is flight. My friends are vacationing in warm places and posting pictures of dancing with Dominicans and naked feet and water for miles. Hot water on ginger tea on Stevia on Japanese tea cups.
The neighborhood unrolls with daylight and like the universe, its contents are only fathomable with arbitrary measures and designs. I'm not counting on anyone to explain it anymore. Just walk with me in the continuous, away from the mind and its treacherous games. Treads on snow on squeak on ears on walk on white on white on white.