of 2018

Image for post
Image for post
Bright, but frigid outside

A lone ladybug does laps
around the white track
of window frame
while snowflakes turn,
shimmering silver flashes
catch my eye, and speckle the ceiling.

Little squeals and giggles
pepper the air, still full
of this morning’s bacon.

My normal ritual
of my river trail hike
on New Year’s Day
feels pressing,
but do I dare face
the barking cold of this day?

I know how the wind
will sting my senses
alive on the trail,
and exactly where
it will let up.

That the ground
will be too frozen
to relax on, but I will
plant myself there regardless.

That I don’t need
to bring my journal, but I will,
and that my hands will likely
go numb as I write.

I know there is absolutely
no reason why I have to leave
my house and make myself
intentionally uncomfortable.

Except for this pressing
of insides, egging me on.

Time to catapult
myself into sneaks
and out the door —
to visit rooted truthsayers
who call me to listen

To their thoughts
on making sense
of the scents
of new year.

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