Red is Red

The mystical has elongated into an underground frost. I walk around on the surface as if a daffodil is just a daffodil. The cardinal never seems to pace – he arrives, perches, surveys, and moves on. Red is red and not delusional about significance at all.

Snow falls on itself this late in the game. When spring arrives, I think I shall swallow the moon and walk around all glowy. Where the deck once was, mud and remnants from another time. Broken concrete piles into a pyramid under the white pine. When I asked about the opossum that lived under the deck, the man quipped: do you really want to know? In this marriage, there are a million things that work well and only a few that do not. Giving the nod and wink to remove the opossum is an undigestible bullet rattling around a rusting bucket.

BBQ pulled pork, garlic butter potatoes, and a spinach/romaine salad. The snow is leaving and perhaps by tomorrow the sun will arrive to tempt the tulips. A tiny wren hops about the new dirt, barely leaving tracks. Small things wend a way for love.