The long nights stretch out as though time were an elastic pulled or released to form the shape of seasons.   I like the quiet of December, how the day runs ahead of me like a startled deer only to slowly settle into night.  I like the twilight snow, and the cold stars blossoming in the gardens of sky.   There is a solitude to it all, an expansive singularity as I watch the flakes meandering, perfect and infinite.  

The last few months have been a time of great transition for me, with loss and rebirth all tumbled into a soft sort of falling.  My CD is almost done, it seems to be the light I hold as a beacon, the only motion forward I can find.  So I sit in the darkness and imagine this creative birth, hoping it will lead me to new strands of thoughts, to new experiences, to new songs singing in the quiet spaces between my cells. 

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