Over coffee, Agnes mentions mist rising off the frozen river.
Later I experience a moment of clarity while making the bed. Sometimes when this happens, there is a sense of something spreading out from between my shoulder blades. Like wings. Only much more. The feeling makes me think of the gradual transitions of light at dusk and dawn. Perhaps ice turning to mist, returning to cloud. An invisible unfurling.
It happens within seconds. Comes and goes.
Ice on the river
turns to mist, returns in dawn’s
blue light. Like awareness,
comes and goes. Always
here there. Waiting not waiting.
To be seen. Not seen.
Another winter storm.
High in the cottonwood tree;
Forget the blood bone
and origins of thought.
Let the Mystery be.
Light snow falls and drifts.
Goldfinches dig out the feeder.
Good ol’ universe;
Fresh tracks and bloodstains
where ice meets open water.
Everything; written in the snow.
There’s nothing I can add.
Maybe love isn’t as big as we think it is;
more common and less to die for.
Maybe less cause for celebration
and more for a silly grin.