Isn’t there a lyrical stream still running under ice?
If so, is it so cold it’s hot?
When you let thoughts stop falling into slots, do they make snow, tears, a stream, or an umbrella?
What if we each have many streams of consciousness instead of just one?
Isn’t the body always shaping thoughts the way unseen soil feeds the tallest tree boughs?
Isn’t it time to climb down from the tower?
A hungry junco’s trident feet sketch arrows of desire in the snow.
Will you follow them or make your own?
Enjoy your weekend. See you in the woods.
Drop in the Hut
What questions are you living in today?