Snow against yesterday's postcard sky. The traffic stall after the loping stroll.
A sleeping dog, then tearing the toy apart. A full belly and certain yearning.
The cry into the pocket of a collarbone and a heart swelling with luck. A bowl
of ripening clementines while the calendar page flips into winter. That turning
wheel while the mysteries gather and multiply. The bones are tired
and restless all at once - it's hard to keep cleaning the mess on the desk
when the mailman comes, like clockwork, with the next pile. And art, inspired
at the first hearty kicks from the great Muse, falls short, then curdles (briefly) shut. The task,
always, is fortitude and patience, which–I suppose–are contrasts, too. But an eye isn’t an eye
until it blinks. Waning darkness is essential as birthing light. We need to live before we die.