The cold moon ushers in the New Year –
full of promise,
flanked by worry and doubt and fear,
but new nonetheless, and fresh and free.
May we all see dreams made real,
time and touch and love,
and may we be happy.
May we take this year and make it
what we want and need,
and may we do what we can do.
May we happen,
and not get happened to.
The New Year opens the door.
May we all walk through.
Winter begins with a promise each year:
It only gets brighter from here.
Delicate and slow
Snowflakes descend from gray skies
And turn the world bright
*******
In rhythm with life
Like white petals on a breeze
Fragile crystals fall
*******
Powder coats the ground
Soft like sweet icing sugar
Dessert for the eyes
*******
This new snow globe world
Brief and fleeting as a breath
Fantasy made real
*******
I love snow. I’ve always loved snow. I like the way that life slows down when it snows. I like the reminder that fragile things – tiny, delicate things – like snowflakes, can have a huge impact and tremendous power.
A December snowstorm is a truly rare thing here in Virginia. The forecast has changed several times over the last hours, so I’m not sure how much snow we’ll get today, but I can tell you one thing:
I will enjoy every single millimeter and every single moment of it.
For days and days,
we watch.
And we wait –
for the cold snap,
the good pattern,
full clouds and low pressure,
the track and the timing,
elements that must come together.
Warm breath on the crisp air,
red noses, chilly fingers,
hats and gloves
and hot chocolate in hand,
we watch and we wait
for the delicate promise
of the season’s first snow.
Of course the big picture is beautiful.
It’s made up of a million little miracles –
small victories
and delicate pieces.
Beautiful all on their own,
these fundamental fragments,
and meaningful
not because they are part of something larger.
Just because they are.
“You can’t,”
said the Head.
“You can,”
said the Gut.
“You must,”
said the Heart.
Light and Shadow:
We are made of both,
and we choose how they balance.
Each moment a call –
to break or create,
arms or alms,
hate or a hand,
action or none.
This power is ours.
Light or shadow,
growth or fallow,
only we choose.
I am under construction –
a permanent, perennial project,
a living labor of love.
A marvel of miraculous engineering
made up of moments and memories,
I am a fleeting, faltering, and flawlessly full of faults
dawdling, dauntless daydreamer.
A confounding collection of curiosities,
a cacophonous convergence of creation,
I am proud to be
(persistently)
(profoundly)
perfectly imperfect.
Hello
I am here
I think
Most nights
Around the corner
On the stairwell
Down the hall
I am here
Yes
I get lots of visitors
I love you because
when I want cider and you want wine,
we drink cider.
I love you because
you learned to cook
so you could do it with me,
and because you always give me the best spot on the couch.
I love you because we talk about the world
and where we want to go in it
and how we can make it a little better
together.
I love you because
you dance with me in the dining room
when we should be doing dishes
and because you know all the words to Bohemian Rhapsody.
I love you because
you exist and are, in the same way that
birds fly and
fish swim and
flowers bloom.
There will never be enough time for
how much I love you.
But seven years is a just fine start,
and for now will have to do.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 