But For Love

Over-worn pajamas and an unmade bed; I'm so tired now. Winter helps to discard what I am not. At least there is some sort of tangible purge towards something lighter. Or maybe I'm just the nothing I pretended to be. Either way, all kinds of identity is now falling with the snow. The day's terrain rises and falls in forms that I'm learning to surf – a loose, wet texture that never seems to behave as expected. If one manages a mindless seeing, observations can pass through. Winter can lose its teeth. Names can begin to empty into the ineffable. Even Jessica.

One witnesses snowflakes building upon each other all day in dull duty – that is, until the light arrives. With a crack in the gray ceiling, the sky's yolky genesis opens another dimension of brilliance too elusive for capture by word or brushstroke or shutter. Somehow this primordial freedom is always there, in the heartbeat of life.

Gray to glorious.

Pining to paid.

Bitter to benevolent.

Watching the birds at play just out of reach, I am reminded to forget all I ever thought I knew. But for Love. That shall remain.