Bare feet feel the crunching cold , my weight bending and crushing as they chase the dog around the yard.
The bones of our street greet my sigh into coffee steam.
The promise of what will be. The hanging onto . The never want to leave.
A just barely first snow teases out damp shivering. The columnar oak hums a delicate rustling, and I wonder if I could rub and crush it's copper brown leaves. It's a conical dried evergreen that 's not of course. Unless you see what could be. What stays with whispering seemingly impossible.
I think of prancing back out there, squinting eyes against the sharp spray. I think of stripping off quivering leaves , rubbing and crumbling a powder of fine life is beautiful essence.
What blustery blackness ahead might need a pinch of the gifts we can't see magic?
** this post is shared at Chatting at the Sky , for the Tuesdays Unwrapped series. It is always a good thing to learn to see. To receive the seemingly impossible.
and if you aren't aware of my other blog, might I prompt a visit. I 'd like to share my Hope for Advent series, and encourage you to think a little differently about the meaning of the Christmas season, or let me know how you approach it with true intention.
As my Day 2 post of community , I'd like to give a huge hug to Claire . Her blog, my memoir of you, was one of the first I ever visited. I've continually been awed and quieted and inspired by not only her photography, writing, thoughts, and heart, but by the authentic beautiful joy she radiates from herself, finds in others, in all that is around her , and all that is sacred and mysterious. Thank you, Claire .