Bound to One Direction

Her soft snores coo in spirals at my feet.

At 5 a.m. I build a fire against this winter storm and in the pulse of flames, the magic of breathing dances.

White falls on white into white with the only exception of color being the stalwart trunks of our great protectors; their green, piney lashes peaking out from long sleeves of snow.

my red pen
a mensuration
of love letters
this common blight
on the purity
of our call

Snow falls piece by piece, a little like ashes escaping an inferno, this time, bound to one direction. I can't leave and yet, I do not forget names of Vermont rivers or the undoing they require. They do call. They do ask. So then, who answers?

Glittering motes swirl, specs of diamond-light spilling from snow laden boughs. Magic would look like this if you could see it.

My father's records wait in the corner, some in a Boone's Farm cardboard box, labeled “Weather's” in red Sharpie marker. Some are in an old brown milk crate. And more are in a fancy woven basket. The cover art is my childhood and the music is some strange amalgamation of my parents' life before I existed and the early years of Jessie-the-lake-girl.

I don't need a bad guy and I don't need rescuing. I just need to know that I can end this world of glitter and guts in exchange for that which never ends.

snow/veils/glitter/falling/for good