I left the house on foot this morning without a clock in search of a time
when thoughts were not complicated by war. A time before clocks
managed bombs and people desired vacations from their lives.
And if not for snow in steady fall, I would have pedaled too fast
past sage to notice whether she holds her scent under the blanket,
how white fluff turns to black stuff at the crossroads, and how I can
let that sadness in or push it away to where it lingers.
How in that murky water, oil from below and tree from above
take shape because light plays there. And how
if all I see are those two forms and all I want is light, I miss my own reflection.
I want winter, to live for a spell
moving at the pace of snow.
note: remember the seasons of the day, the month, the year ~ "that the pace of change is not even". Read George Lakey's "Beyond Paris and the temptation to despair" at Waging Nonviolence/Living Revolution