Drifting

Herself.
She who breathes,
therefore reads.

A January layered with snowfalls.

The teeth clenching cold on our morning walks along the train tracks.

The warmth and familiarity of wood and crisply starched cotton.

The morning we gathered to bury the beloved patriarch and peaceful poet.

The mourning dove
who came to sit on that branch every single day that I spent on this painting.

The light.
Washing us in it’s grace.

Going deeper and reaching farther
and coming back
to the simple act
of a curious mind
and tired hands
turning the page
and
drifting.