Huge drifts of snow are waded through and
shoveled and these are my thoughts.
If I let them melt, the sun might shine
the trees would bloom and
I could walk freely meeting friends.
Now I sweat, instead, engaging them,
moving and handling.
Its why virgin snow is calming and scary.
Its why a warm sea is inviting and full of sharks.
Its why the air is fragrant and toxic.
Relaxing into reality is impossible.
Why try it otherwise?
Every moment holds the potential of ruining the song.
It will sing itself, of course, if you let it.