In Shelter

It's cold here and I miss the sound of birds.

To winter well.
To be well.
To walk back from the well.

An endless path of the heart.

One accepts there are no more wishes in falling stars.

Winter bright.

From Goodwill I buy my first Christmas record – some old-timey renditions without a date anywhere to be found other than a youthful picture of Doris Day and Sammy Davis, jr., beaming from decades before I was born. The mildewed inner sleeve causes a succession of sneezes as I pull it from it's long dark den. To hold a record is one way to see we are in shelter of one another.

Variants – school shootings – the endless ways to show and learn from love. The Sufi Way offers the silence of the desert. See how it connects us all. See how to acknowledge the ground. See the ways in which awareness does more than visits.

Grey dawns arrive, one after another, and another one. Tea by the window. A winter watcher wonders how to express this tenderness to the whole world. Holy Love moves; I must let It pass if It chooses. Did we ever make it to the river delta?