Tonight my soul feels desolate and isolated, roaming aimlessly
through the winter of my life.
I step outside, where the weather has become conversational.
Like the hum of bees, swirling crystals swarm the bridge
between the moans of the misbegotten and the ears of the earnest.
We are afflicted in every way, but we are not undone.
The silence is resounding as the Dead and the Living
convene for a fleeting season. The wind howls —
Grace, is an unattainable state. I know this, but my longing
remains my thirst insatiable. The squall dissipates, and
I am left questioning the ownership of tonight’s honesty.
Make no mistake, this taciturn blanket is full of words and vitality.
The snow is not cold.