Shush! It’s snow. Hush, i’m not going to bandy round bound by words. They’ve rusted shut. There’s crap waiting to be tapped. Silence rapped tight. Under ice a moving breeze might kick up a whisper here and there. Muffled tight against falling. Even a glass can’t touch this adamantine against Northern light. The pathology of being busy can only have a natural antidote.

19 Feb 14 | Spring Weeding | 2 comments