Eloquent Bones

Prismatic frost, praise these old eyes praising the new morning. The familiar adage needs a minor edit to be correct, beauty is the eye of the beholder. Shivering in sneakers and no jacket, the old trick of facing winter unadorned works yet again. How still the morning is, and how cold! A crow calls to another crow on the far side of the river and it's like the whole twentieth century crying out for forgiveness in me. What breaks, what cannot, ever. What breathes. The heart a bell, the body a steeple wandering back and forth across the earth, our shared church. As later we touch gently in the pantry, leaning into each other to warm each other, remind each other we are not alone, cannot be, ever. Advent is for crumbling, letting go of seeking, and rethinking altogether Bethlehem and its famous manger. Yeats in his grave is eloquent bones. Between a tree falling in the snowy forest and its decoration hours later, a single inhalation, and this: this this.