The words aren't here today. The
trees are bare and snow is blanketing the ground with blankness so conclusive
that I’m drawing blanks instead of letters.
Soon the jet stream will be
introducing yet another arctic blast. So if the snow isn’t smothering this breath within my heart, the cold will simply kill it. Will it?
Is the heart subjective to
objective stimulation or the lack of it, or is this mutable material within the
one embrace of universal heart?
I guess acceptance of the month of
February is the point of any Valentine.
The shortest month may feel as if
it's longest with its cold that ruthlessly continues and its snow that blinds
the eye from seeing any sign of spring.
But loving it is seeing that the
winter is the shadow of the summer and I'm neither yin nor yang but each has
sprang from my intent that’s always calling all—
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