The row of oaks in front of the firs. A place to start. Bare limbs enfolded in wintergreen.
The timing is always off. She found her second chance, again, in a string of dances but it didn’t match his resolve which was like an acorn fifty years on. She even watched other women but they seemed know how to separate pie from fiction. But she kept at it, month after month, toiling away in place, barely blinking. A dream framed in evergreen. There were days the pie was perfect. But others when she forgot the steps. Sometimes, she just enjoyed the dance.
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.