This house is warm, and full of music. I’m alone here.
I wish I wasn’t sometimes, but that is beside the point. The sky outside is very dark, and the windows are slashed silver with the last of the storm rain. It is December and mystery is everywhere. Everything is unknown, which is very beautiful.
(I was going to write about the black stones of the city. But no, it doesn’t work today)
Where were we all? Did I walk past you one day, did you look over? Were we at school together, did we sit opposite each other in the Washington one night, did I get a light from you outside? Did I cut in front of the three of you at the bar? Were you there that night when it all went strange, when I wasn’t me for a few hours? And we’ll never know, never see the pattern that we made as we walked through town on a Tuesday night.
Don’t pay attention to me, I’m only happy when I break the law.
Trees in the park, and there’s an urgent message written in the branches – an absurd laughter in the wind. There was that summer day when I knew you were there, and it took everything not to go to see you. But it’s nearly winter, and the sky is cold. I would like to make a bonfire somewhere. I think you would like to join me in that.
There’s a high sound in the air now. Perhaps I just haven’t been listening recently.
I am very happy, though I cry a lot. I gave up a great deal to be me. I made a bargain – the first of many – and I sold my share of Sunday night in exchange for winter sky and summer danger. I’m about to make another deal, to give up more of my safety and security in exchange for my mind, heart, and knowing what is right and what is wrong, because I can’t believe in disobedience so completely and still preach compliance.
All of which – it’s thoughts for an afternoon in December. I hope there are lights where you are. Tell me about them.
Crow Violets 