North is Light

North is tundra, north is light. North is not no, but yes, but yes differently, without opposition. North is that, that way. But not only. A landscape approached as if the center were everywhere, as if walking in it were itself sacred. That action, which is not activity. At the beginning, one longs to perceive the end, and at the end, perceives the middle, but in truth there is no beginning, middle or end, only perception. A way of saying center that matters. We go without a long time, we are sent back. Fox tracks crossing the last patch of snow then faintly perceptible in frosty mud then gone. At the beginning, one moves to find the beginning, or anything. It is a way of holding on. A way of holding one? We are always helpfully implicated. Melodies assume shape, become tassels, ribbons, the silken tendril of milkweed dander recalled in April when winter is not so distant. There is no "out of it" because there is no "it" to leave. On the other hand, lack. We are composed of abundance, forever composing. Two crows in Holyoke, one flying slightly below the other, both going North. A trail I can only just make out, not follow, not yet.