Picture this.

Picture this.

You’re walking down a freshly groomed trail in winter, it’s a crystal-clear calm night, just below freezing. Your breath dissipates in the air.

It smells like Christmas and it reminds you of exactly that. It reminds you of when you were a kid, full of awe and excitement about the morning you got to open presents…whereas now you just think “where the hell am I going to put this stuff I’ll never use?”

The cold air mixed with pine and fir trickle down your lungs and settle. It’s a special feeling…amplified by the purity of the moment.

The moonlight bounces off the snow so hard you almost think you should wear an SPF-something-or-other. She doesn’t always make an appearance, but when she does damn does she shine.

The trees crack and moan like they’re sick and tired of standing in line and waiting, but like models, they’re so beautiful to look at. Unlike models, though, they’re much more inclined to stand in the cold – they look amazing no matter the season – and they get better with age.

The air tastes like the harsh undertones in an elders warning. You appreciate their candor, but you’re satisfied to keep moving, confident and cocky to the point of desolation.

The snow crunches beneath your feet, your boots leaving tiny rutty villages behind. It feels all the more apparent that no two snowflakes are alike.

You’re almost home now. You hear the streetlights buzz before they come into full view. The cars whipping by on the highway, a dog barking in the distance.

Thanks for walking with me. Somehow it makes me feel less alone.

M.

SOUNDTRACK: Pictures – Benjamin Francis Leftwich

The Ocean’s Soul

The mist lingered on top of the water for 15 minutes longer today.

He took another sip of coffee and rocked slowly in his chair on the front deck of the cottage they once coined their poets nest.

He thinks back to a time when they would comb the shoreline every Friday for debris released from the grip of the tides. He remembers this one day when she found a large black feather, a raven’s feather; it was weather-beaten but she thought she had found gold.  He remembers so clearly taking it from her soft hands and weaving it in the locks of her long dark hair.

“You’re my Pocahontas,” he said. As soon as the words escaped his mouth she started running. She ran and ran until she reached the end of the beach. He followed her, as he always did, and they sat dipping their toes in the ocean and talking about the future.

“You’ll always put feathers in my hair, won’t you darling? And paint my funny looking toes, and read me your beautiful words?”

“Yes,” he replied, “For you I bare my soul, just as surely as the ocean reaches yours.”

He remembers that long, bittersweet kiss they shared in that moment.

He looks around him and remembers the nights they lay underneath the scratchy plaid blanket, just over there beneath the picture window, searching for Ursa Minor in the sky.

He takes another sip of coffee.

He clutches the raven’s feather tightly in his hand.

“The mist lingered on top of the water for 15 minutes longer today my love,” he whispered, “I hope that you can feel it.”

M.