I’ve been housebound all week, you’d think I’d write of snow or cold, the longer dark, the lingering ice. But it’s the fire I think of; the arc of lifting logs from the stack of wood, the arrangement of kindling, the crackle of pine cones and dried lavender tossed into the wood stove.
I don’t know if it’s growing older, but for now perspective shifts landscape. There is more sky, more field, each aspect of topography is simultaneously more subtle and more noticed, more carefully shaded. The outline of bare branches; a bending of line, an arc of time.
The day lengthens into cups of tea when there is no where else to be home is a larger place. I stretch to fill the rooms.
Commentaires