No matter, how I think of the earth. Its mastery still promises to astound me. The thrashing of ice block upon cumbersome block... I am a constant witness to miracles of creation's crime scene. There is no violent, thrashing, tale...quite the same. And, I am just a human pawn... In a loosing game.
An arbitration of none... Stop enjoying the cold. Or... Stop and enjoy the cold. No more than a philosophy... than a pervasive frame of mind. New Hampshire elements do not mix with that which is... gentle or kind. I can take the small drippings of arctic awe. Or... transcend into an illusion of temperate novelty.
If a freedom rang through the fog. What a delight it would be... for my stuttered bones. My body, seemingly, a fractured lawn ornament. In search of a new home. I turn, and face my hobble toward this mystic, mythic road. appendages nothing more than a mere icicle for the cold. Infantile, I still believe … Continue reading For My Stuttered Bones
I count the squirrels in the trees. By doing so, I disavow pity. I count the bricks in a wall. By doing so, I am made ten feet tall. I imagine, varying sun. And, its spirituality will provide. I tally the tasks in which the earth confides.
The road narrows with each passing day. Desert like snow rolls in... but refuses to blow away. No mirage. No sandcastle play. Just a diminishing walkway.