Wednesday, December 1, 2010


It is a heart encased in ice. Winter's fingers, it seems, pushing all away. The heart, though, remains. The ice does not diminish it nor do the fingers crush it. 

Do not mistake what you may see for what is. For if you had paused and sat with the heart, you would have seen the sun's hand melt the prison. The branch, once bowed, sprung back and lifted itself in thanks. And in the lifting, the melting, the heart soared and danced.

To see what is, sometimes you have to sit. You have to sit knowing the melt is part of the ice.