The storm passes, leaving half a dozen flakes circulating in the not-so-cold. The horses run in a big loop when I come with hay in morning dark, their glad hearts lifting us. So the waning crescent moon is farther south than expected, so what? I grab a shovel, I begin to work.
Family is a network of stories that tell themselves to one another. Our bodies are blossoms floating in rain puddles. When I clear the stairs, I scatter dirt and hay so nobody will fall. It doesn't matter where you're buried, but it does matter where you walk and with whom.
Or is that just a way to say it that sounds right? Hunched over the loose snow I imagine xylophones in the pine trees, then realize it's juncos and wrens waking up. The many colors snow assumes become me. When I widen the trail enough to lug water buckets in either hand am I being helpful or just booking later praise?
Against the pale dawn, dozens of icicles study the ground. Dancing is a helpful metaphor because it invokes intention, pattern and a lively heart. When I stand quietly giving attention to the eastern horizon, its radiant band of brightening coral, am I one with the Lord or just another moth given to the light? Turtles surface, then drop back down into the depths.
Later, over a second cup of coffee, writing and remembering. Something happened a long time ago in Fall River and we are just waking up to it. The moon says what about the whole sky? Beloved, it is never anticipating what comes next that troubles us, but rather managing what comes after.