Sunday, February 27, 2011
I Find my Soul at the Bottom of a Tea Cup
The snow has covered the cars and roads while the moon walks over the night. It's name is cold. It's fingers touch me and ask that I get another quilt for the bed. While I'm up I throw some more pieces of wood onto the fire.
Each piece of wood that I gather from the front porch leaves a trail of bark crumbs into the kitchen. It is too late to worry about the story left behind. I shake loose the chopped pieces of wood and watch as sow bugs and long legged spiders run off in all directions.
The blanket covers me and adds weight to my thoughts like a seed, the soil covering it over and a touch of water convinces it to grow. The spring air still has a touch of frost forcing it to grow a little stronger, a little tougher. It’ll have to prove it’s worthy enough to poke through the ground.
I whisper into the darkness and the percussion of the fire answers. In the morning there will be a jacket and mittens that warm me like a hug. There will be big boots that leave tracks in the snow and remind those after me that I was there.