Tonight's moon, low and too far west of summer. Sitting beneath is to examine every single thought in all directions. Open, close, and open again – a heartbeat growing weary of unnecessary contemplation. And moonbeams move onward. A paper soul stays behind, mourning a lost word in the deeper night. Winter whittles towards the shapeless shape, inviting space and silence. The clean, white expanse never begs but quietly extracts with an open-mouthed kiss. November tossed the unfoldable blankets before I was ready. And so what? This is the trek of Now.
So in this way, I haven't packed my bags yet.
I've not lamented the string of gray pearls strung across the sun for a week.
And there is no keening on the moony 3 a.m. trail.
The heart of why I was made will thaw here in the icy tomb. It will touch your chest to end the syncopation of lack. Nature herself gives way.
Winter, even you will gain the power to solace the almost. And with this yes I will not fall asleep.
my blaze your shiver peace therein