It’s not quite winter but some trees
have given themselves over to the sleeping
season, bare branches brushing the sky,
or at least low-lying clouds.

I’d like to remember what drew me here
without the specter of sentiment
meant for someone else, because maybe
there’s no redundancy when a heart speaks.

I watch branches shivering in a winter storm
like lovers dancing around foggy notions
of freedom, purpose, and what will be.

My improbable start with the Benedictines
doesn’t fully explain the degree of
self-loathing that often has a firm grip.

The quiet and raging rituals were frightening
and it’s taken half a lifetime to accept
a small voice can be the right one.

Perhaps I didn’t have enough time
with the Baptists for more than a breather
or the Quakers with their zen waiting or
the Lutherans or the Presbyterians
before finding Methodists a middle ground
for my wandering and wondering.

Mostly, what I hold closest I find
in the woods or in a smile or in a cup of tea-
what I don’t understand, I now embrace.

Parts of me are either exploding
or melting away. I think of mammoths
in melting ice. I think of fierce vikings.
I think “time is arbitrary.”
I also think despair is a silly thing to cling to when there things in the world like
a fine piece of chocolate (valhalla)
or the skill of enjoying a private moment
in a crowded room (thrilling).

I know I am never bored but sometimes
so lonely and blue, it’s as if I know I belong
buried in ice too, shaggy and preserved.
It’s facing another winter with its wind
and howling dark times that sends me
to places of wool and wondering.
I think that’s fine and arbitrary too.