This place is part of my history but what speaks to me now are cracks in the ice, shifts in the riverbank, and tired stark beauty of the trees.
I don’t hear ghosts as much anymore, which is a relief. A lot of painful wounds have grafted closed, leaving rough ridges to step lightly over.
I see my reflection in the stately swollen winter river and I’m not sure what it means, probably just that I’m still looking down too often.
It’s just that I tend to trip over my own feet so much, looking up is a real act of bravery for me. I’m not particularly brave, just curious and eager and ready for the season to change.
When the sky and the hills
and the road and the grass
are all the same ashy grey
and the morning song is a muffled cry
with thousands of wings fluttering,
whatever falls is part of the grey
as it is hard to tell which way is up
and we are part of the grey
because the light is elsewhere
for the moment.
The Word Rummager 