The grinding of thought – a formula of observation followed by some sort of gravitational need to anchor it into place. The slant of the sun suggests spring, yet the air cuts my eyes and tucks my cheeks into coat collars. So what? Spring is a process. My mind plays games with it all: every piece of matter does its thing regardless of thought. Can't I? Attention to change now is like breathing. The creek swells. The robin arrives to sit on the wires. Our Christmas tree is now mountainous in the fleeting snow. But I can't observe without an unintentional emptiness – an ache of longing that resists root and barrow.
Today's mottled ice is tomorrow's potting soil. I can't get over the coils originating from my glance. How impermanent it all is. A walk is just a walk and birds are just birds and I take care of whomever is near. Now, to make you all near . . .
For a long time I have been bending words to reveal that I am impoverished – a beggar in love with the intangible you. The truth remains unhurried and unmoored by such effort, asking only when I might take a chance on the nothing of everlasting bread.
As spring takes hold, we put away the boots so precious to our comfort and survival. For what need will we have during the shoeless jubilee of summer?