A tremor in the foundation, the end of things as we know them – we dare not speak of rising water, just quietly build the levee.
Strange to view a conclusion so absolute through a lens of knowing turned back on itself, from the vantage point of Here and Now. Still, old predictable resistance can be folded small and dropped into one’s pocket, or cast away among shards of breaking morning.
Winter solstice glides up to meet us, you can smell its breath. Wind has stripped the trees and paid them nothing for it. The trees are just trees, the wind, only wind. If we relinquished our ownership of all things it would be no easier to part with what little light remains. It’s just enough to see by, just enough to make out the transparency of all that appears solid.
Yet once the first drops of light splash the pool of night’s ending, the needle of our compass twitches – illuminated, restless, urging us on. We see ourselves rising from the bed, drawing back curtains to throw open windows, but we can’t always do it. Sometimes there is no movement and we watch the world with an outsider’s eyes.
Sometimes we see ourselves in a circle of standing stones, making a fire where we might set flame to all things. The ring of stone is a place where we might plant something new, once the cinders have cooled and been used to smudge our faces.
A place where triumph and tragedy might coexist, where our praises and lamentations might live together in peace beneath a frost of stars.