Monday, February 27, 2012

Day One Hundred and Seventeen: Six Post Card Stories

The sky pink lake waves, ripples welcome in the morning when I glance behind, happy to look, but sad to keep moving, no pillar of salt in my moment of weakness, I face a new day leaving the winter break at my back.

First sun tap, tap, taps through my parka shoulder, at least three times before I realize everything has changed as God's eye ball peeks over the snowy hills. I snap to remember. I turn to forget. I write to see.

The blue is even bluer with that ball of fire climbing the hills at my back, hitting the hills ahead, behind the giant tipi, white lights on the governance centre match the white snow in the hills, or is the snow blue too.

My hikers on the gravel snow crunch, crunch, crunch and I'm focused on the road ahead, but a glint to my right, draws my eye, blows me a kiss, I turn to see sunshine circles, the pow wow arbour a circle, too.

How can such subtle colours -- brown, beige, cream, white, grey, blue -- please and startle the morning awake with just one smooch of sunshine?

Is anyone home inside that faux fur lined cave, frost forming like lashes, while four lines overhead sing back and forth -- voices or electricity -- under the blue and white fish scale sky.

1 comment:

  1. love it. Your words are a sweet indulgence of richness with depth of thought and lightness of phrase- makes my heart sing.