The minister of God awakens to snow. Moonlight. Deer step deeper into the bracken and the frost crackles as they go. A crow will fly many miles going home.
The mail complicates what we call our lives. Insistence and repetition, the twin angels of destruction. Bohm was mistaken about the Greek god of time. With that, we are back at the start.
Yet the post office is oddly a site of camaraderie. We decorate for Christmas and invite others to do the same. The oddity of shame, the turning of a coin as it falls off the bed. He wrote his feet were tired and so they were.
Tuffets of snow after days of rising temperatures, reminders of what awaits us all. She held onto her old college poetry books and I could not help but feel some necessary, some reassuring kinship. We are what we read. While notes of music riddle the shared body.
And this. When I look at you I feel happy and that is a sort of peace, one for which I am grateful. Turns? One walks lightly where yesterday was only anger.
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