It snowed for a few minutes yesterday - fine white flakes that seemed oddly out of place but also unapologetic. They didn't give a shit about propriety, or where - or when - they belonged. I forgot about them until around midnight when I went outside for a few minutes. The moon, constant companion of late, was gone and the sky was filled with stars. There was a winter clarity to them, hard points of light that almost made your teeth hurt. The black beyond them like onyx, like marble. I stood marvelling, watching my breath dissipate. You could hear the peepers in the distance, and I feared they'd be iced over by sunrise. The coldest hours were yet to come.
Or are the coldest hours these days when I wake up and the to-do list is composed of exactly two items, neither of which I want to do. Oh it's a hard life when every day of work isn't sweet as cinnamoned apples, as smooth as maple syrup. You'd think I'd long for these sentences here, this distraction, but no. They're like dragging a head stone around through the mud. This, the fourteenth sentence, is a perfect example. Worse - or contrary to what's usual - I actually went back and reread what I wrote. I'm not sure that onyx is the right word and wonder should I check it. The seventeenth sentence could be a definition of onyx, except it isn't.
I'm going to let it be, whatever it is. And end on a bland couplet, a poor foundation indeed.
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