It is cold.
Again.
The temptation hangs,
To keep my eyes
Closed
And wish warmth,
Wearing shorts
And open windows.
But you are insistent.
We pile on the layers,
Stepping out into
Frozen eyelashes.
My view is edged
With frosted fur,
You run ahead
And bury your
Face in fresh snow.
Happy.
Sunshine glistens
Off the lofted
Crystals,
Each spectacular,
Singular.
I am glad to
Be here.
June 28, 2024
I mostly run on gravel roads, the kind that promise solitude and dust. My pace has slowed, as has most of life, become more of a quiet watching than a frenzied doing. I am less Read more…