Sons on Christmas Day

In last night's dream, Jeremiah, the prophet as a young adult, visited me and my life. He had no message but instead was there to see. I showed him a yurt in the woods I found the day before his arrival. I shared with him my surprise of its warmth and spaciousness. We got along well, shared a few jokes and knowings with each other, but it was clear, he was observing with intent.

I woke Christmas Day to my son, still up from the previous day, writing a letter to his sister. He said not to worry – he only needs 4 good hours of sleep before any Christmas activities. I kissed him on the forehead and told him I loved him.

An updraft carries almost imperceptible, lake-effect glitters towards the porch light. The entire view is white, even tree trunks, from being blasted with blizzard snow and wind for the last 48 hours. The world could turn upside down and it would look entirely the same.

As day breaks, the most slender insinuation of lavender differentiates sky from ground.

white paper
and the blank wake
of blizzards
this barge
of hush

The neighbor's icicles grow longer than the window and I wonder if she looks out from her bedroom as a prisoner might. After only a few hours, very little proof exists of spending hours clearing the roof, driveway and deck. Mote-type flakes turn into fat pieces of confetti, weighing pine branches down to almost vertical.

I miss the sun.

I miss a lot of things, even though I am not supposed to.

Before anyone wakes, I put on a jazz vinyl, still utterly baffled by the lack of Dylan albums in the collection. A blue jay squawks and it registers with me that I haven't heard this sound in a very long time.

Coffee – Coltrane – Christmas chirrups.

This new terrain, with the face of love, is actually the oldest.