WINTER’S PROSE TOO
Tattered and battered charcoal-gray wintered limbs reach and wiggle for the warmth of the sun; through a silver-gray winters pall; winters old and wintering in the yard.
WINTER’S PROSE TOO
Tattered and battered charcoal-gray wintered limbs reach and wiggle for the warmth of the sun; through a silver-gray winters pall; winters old and wintering in the yard.
MY DEAREST C.,
As I sit in the sanctuary of this tree house at six-forty-five am in the mid autumn darkness of daylight savings time, typing and sipping a very hot medium roast of cocoa and subtle spice of Guatemala Antigua, softly and quietly illuminated by the candles in the window and the twinkle lights from the terrace, the grounds below invisible and the wood, beyond the bay window I am facing, but a mere phantom, I feel gratitude for this measurable measure of equanimity.
“Life always has an unhappy ending, but you can have a lot of fun along the way, and everything doesn’t have to be dripping in deep significance.”
– Roger Ebert
AT A LOSS (or)
As the wood wavers to a winter breeze, and the sun sets on this cold romantic February waking, I entertain the second glass of ruby red valentine wine; as it sifts lower in my throat the Angus Die-Trinity Choir performs Barber’s Adagio – number four on the playlist, after, strings, flute and brass, while tears roil over both cheeks, lost, streaming into and onto my beard: I write now to clarinet; next the Tokyo String Quartet for over eight minutes, then, organ: without fail: the most confident and sincerely lovely evening I have enjoyed in some time.