Mulled cider, pico de gallo, and stir fry, with snow, white as a funereal shroud, veiling the ground outside, while the whistling wind scoops handfuls of powder, sprinkling it around again. I saw myself from above and outside, tonight, wondering who inhabited that skin, really, and where might they be going. Steps predetermined or arrayed before me - mulled, my thoughts, and swirling as the steam on this cider. It is lovely having friends who love, laugh, and entertain ridiculous nights over vegetables and rice and pressed apples. May there be an endless number of such.
Too tired for writing tonight.
Powells tomorrow, and much ado.
I'm praying for you, each one. Rest easy this night.
Steam whirls and clouds the rim of this mug
Condensation and cold rebounds from the windows,
within and without, the snowflakes unique
all nestle into the same ground, roof, trees, shroud
the light in eyes is warmer than fire
please -
curl by the hearth near to heart
remembering in each flickering log
the sparks brightening, rise -
each distinct - and disappear
deep into grey
now the cider cools, I drink
the murky brink is clear - out of steam
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