Heartfire

Winter warms me. It’s not the fire or the quiet cat on lap. It’s certainly not, the harried, hurried holidays. The shroud of same-making snow (the compost pile is the car; the tree stump is the berry bush; the woodshed is the forsythia patch) is how echoes come to rest. The words of seasons go unfollowed by commentary. ou c Sounds no longer b n e. A thought leads not to thought. Wet boots, tea mug warm in palm, sun so low, the song of snow (sung sans echo), is the cessation meditation sought by seekers all long year.