Melting, Angel Dust and Heavy Doors

Ice encases rabbit tracks leading away from the front door. Above freezing temperatures compresses the remnants from last week's blizzard. Time is lacerated and measured between drips from the eaves. Each momentary slice of life is scooped and slipped into the old jacket pocket. Melt from the trees travels down trunks, staining the surrounding snow like an accident or a disease. It is not close to springtime so her hints feel apocalyptic. Out of place.

For the first time since I can remember, I slept the entire night – waking with oils of holy blessings and angel dust in my hair. Morning came with a sense of cooperation and wellness. May it be so.

I woke not wanting to go to work and wrestling with the urge to spend the whole day writing. To whom to write and why? That's a really good question, one I can only pretend to articulate. Perhaps most writers do not require a worthy recipient or muse for writing; I am not one of them. Maybe that is not true of poetry but it is certainly true of these sentences. And not without cosmic humor, the poetry does not arrive without the sentences. So for now, this, here, to you. Please read. Please help me with the heavy door. It is together we save the world and ourselves.