by In All Our Years
The layers have worn away, leaving little or no trace at all, of how they were connected. I realize something existed and must still, but ice or snow or air … warm or cool, buffers even the thought of a connection to those things that I felt were real and sound and always to be- solid.
Air is present and available, water too. A cache harbors potential for needs. Circles swirl and swarm, in and out, around and near, some touching, some not, mostly unaware, but usually there.
My mind cluttered in some distant way has neither place nor plan nor wish nor dream to land and root. Perhaps in times like these, to wander is best between rise and set, unaware of the next and neither concerned nor satisfied that today is all for now. The light wanes as she makes her way, offering hope, nothing more, nothing less and that is good.
Flurries fall, but I do not watch, to know if they stay or go. It does not matter really, but I wish perhaps they might or could, be real and sound and- solid once again.