Mid-Winter

The Sun and Moon at equal sight across the valley deep in Winter. Leveling off, the balance about to be shifted; tentative. Bubbling through cloud cover, purpled by its descent, a Sun diminished by the day and visible now for it’s brightness. Galantly singing in tones too soft for day lit hours, a face beneath the veil of sinking afternoon rises as the Moon, defiant, cool and unrelenting.

Back home, nurturing a penchant for empty journals, clean notebooks, sketchbooks with hard stylized covers, packages of legal pads yellow with blue lines. As if with each new purchase, a new novel of being would erupt upon the blank pages, writing itself in clear, scattery italics, telling me in plain English the inner workings of a favorite heroine, myself. She’s like a willow-warrior, reckless and ephemeral. She’s tired, sad, beautiful, and alive, like rain on Spring mornings, like a break in Winter weather. Dodging all boulders, save those she sights with tightened eyes and swallows with the frail fluidity of her being. Like water through a rocky stream, which in it’s passing beautifies the obsticles, like a stargazer upon the lip of darkening clouds, she occupies the last impossible middle between hope and despair. Her speeches come in lengthy phrases; tumbling with long words over hills of changing seasons, circumventing lips only parted enough to let a whisper through, she’ll let a reverie pass for insight before turning to her God in all the awe she can muster, and be humbled once more to silence.

Mid-way; Winter about to turn, and a weakened heroine about to choose a new beginning. Under growing Light, myself, the season awaits the change.

Painting by myself