I want to shape a space for calm and stand kneedeep in Mendelssohn and Mozart singing stained glass cantatas under halos of the moon. I want to step out of windows and drown in fire bursts of flowers or strip the fuzz from the peach and tongue the blush on the flesh below. I want the feeling that we're quite ourselves again resilient as earth and moving like snails in slow motion lust deep in the expectations of love. Storied Lives Snow is a kindness to the old. It covers the bones of winter.
Memory releases earlier worlds innocent of endings.
Sound gathers on horizon's spine. Chords of sunlight sing the morning in and the skin of earth is beautiful. As the traveller moon floats into view nights are long and longer than the long wind sweeping over prairies and wind has no history. Voices hum in the wind and the old do nothing. They lean upwards laying secrets bare to the moon to the snow falling in alphabets of silence and the small mercies of the stars.