A Few Sweet Moves

Night's embroidery.

In a dream, Dandelion says, “why not surrender to the wind and another path?”

Thus ends limbo.
Wither to grow.
Blooming to blaze.

Evening rises out of the ground with pine tree shadows touching one another before disappearing into the black iron night. My mind flees with argumentative geese as they announce their travel plans. Their souls leave here and come back in order to survive. The migration is part of a larger, involuntary dance, of which we all have a few sweet moves.

Yet, winter is quiet and still for so long. A human can become isolated in their December keep. Perhaps it is the preference for solitude which must surrender to another path. As fallen light changes the speed of harvest, the garden taps out almost overnight. I burn a few relics in order to add the ash to the soil. This is how I say goodnight in greatest gratitude.

Here are we, made from pollen and dirt, starlight and clouds. We are an eye unto the other side. Maybe it isn't our job to see, but instead to look.

Look at the dandelions in their white crowns, rising from earth, releasing unto the sky.
Look at the infinite ways to surrender unto the fertile unknown.