Saturday January 4, 2020
Our breath freezes before it hits the air.
Icicles circling the morning mist rising
off the corn field,
touching the rays of sun, reaching
finger and toe beams
towards the frozen ground.
Breath holds the promise of the space between,
where we mix and merge, where the us lives.
We are writing a new book.
It holds others than us, lives that we
weave in with our pages, a purple thread
and a red one. We spill and splay,
the breath of these colours,
unsure of the chapter organization,
the editorial style, the font.
A flock of geese flies high in a V above us,
leaders and followers trading off with
effortless grace. I stop walking.
I look back.
Our footprints in the snow, leading us here,
the generosity of the clouds parting. I turn
my face towards the sun,
let her fill me up, let her breath
sketch the outline of my body.