Winter

I pull on music.  It fills me in ways no other can. It expresses that which words lack.  It takes me to the place that is here, yet on a different plane, at a different level.  Recently I heard the depth of humanity and the expanse of spirit, and I was relieved and grateful for the experience.

I use my hands.  To shape, twist, and guide forms into being.  A latent fear of mine about losing use of my senses has been settled:  I will adjust and prevail when the diagnosis arrives.

These roots run deep and feed me well even if I appear to be dead.  The cold air pushes my warmth closer to my heart.  Steam rises.

And despite churning muck, charlatans, and fools behind masks who are recently revealing themselves through their actions, I am very optimistic that what is good will prevail.