The old way of the world is gone and the harvest is coming. The planes of snow fly low over the harvest fields and land like spaceships. We are coming to the end of spring with the restart of winter.
Dogs bark in the garden behind me and geese saddle up their ponies of clouds to travel to the marsh where they go to the barn of the reeds. The Alberta roses, wild and thorny shrug their shoulders and tell their small shoots to endure. Peace is coming after the snow has been ripped off the body of the land--skin only it is and it will be abraded off by the sun knife wielded in the cold hands of spring yet again.
Every morning before I eat I come to the cold writing room and think about the new day. It's important to see that each day is a gift like a slice of bread with butter from a loaf of time. It's important to be grateful and to see--to really see the gifts of my life. It's important to cut away the fat and enter the meat of thought; to remove myself from shine and glimmer to the best part--knowing.
But what is knowing? Its harvest. The field of sunflowers. The patient walk along a beach by the sea. The sea itself with it's eternal song of never quitting. The mountains with the broody weeds and dust. The solitude of a tent in the ice. The feet and legs hurting as you climb up the route to a peak that never seems to be reachable until you get there.
Outside snow is creeping. It's filtered through the wide nets of surprised boulevard trees. It humps by my front door steps. It smiles as it flies past with the withering smile of the destroyer and the creator all at once. Every snow storm is both a destroyer and a creator. Just a few days ago the dropping snow restored the grass to green fertility. Now it acts as the quencher--putting out the green flames.
Inside the writing room there are geraniums on fire. The paper covers every surface. Stars glimmer in the silence of my life. It's a gift. All of it.