in the mornings, i look for hoof prints in the soft and snowy ground and when they are there, my heart skips a beat
i asked her, “if you were a bird, which bird would you be?”
and she answered so close to my soul:
This morning i walked outside and saw two mourning doves in the trees. There was also an uncharacteristically quiet blue jay flying about. It was early, the mist was rising from the snow. The sky was a light grey that contrasted with the tree silhouettes; nearly brutal in its definition.
It is a new day, what shall we make of it?
changing through the seasons –
she now stands bare and exposed
a tiny worm–
in its grand wormness
it was as light as the future,
and as heavy as the past
a sprinkling of snow in the woods,
and of sugar in hot coffee
and of friendship on this late November day