Tip of Tallow and Wick

The wind howls and shreds all night, turning snow to glass in edgy moonlight. Hours before dawn I struggle to start a fire. Perhaps the kindling is dampened or my patience too taunt. The dog waits for her walk in the dark but it's 6 degrees below zero. Every thing and every one is lingering. Or resistant.

You who is always sunlight to me.

Purification insists on winnowing. Friendships thin; ambitions fade; eros feeds agape and is satisfied. Flames are now contained in the iron fireplace or at the tip of tallow and wick. Peace makes a home here, but refuses stasis. Communication in upward transmissions vibrates with a sense of urgency. Peace, yes. Stillness? Not so much.

I am made more supple and animate, and for that, I rise each morning with a sense of wonder and grace.

Snow falls crisscross – quickly at some angles – barely drifting against the current at others. Juice Newton on the turntable, hard boiled eggs and yesterday's coffee.

No slant here – only truth.