New Years Eve doesn't bring the end of the old year, there is this gap, this space that is January. It is a stumbling, leaves-of-days raking month. Earthy molds swallow time. Grey, smoking mists choke damp layers of memory. None of it is right and all of it is true.
Overwhelmed love for all, is this how God exists? Such love, there is no speaking, only another day manifested in the gift; this now, in a world.
I can't move forward, not yet. I'm not so much frozen as clogged, it frightens me more than falling.