I miss blue in winter, not that cold blue, not that ice blue. I miss sky blue, water blue, joy blue. It is what allows me to flow. Riverbanks are only flexible definitions that change and adapt to flow. The water always moving towards home, that body of water, the destiny.
I found that flow can still happen in winter. I am finding it with words and image.
As I return to the written word, that destiny, that home tugs. As I move downhill the force gathers and the contours of the riverbanks become overflows filled with marsh grasses where I can already imagine ducks sitting the nest.
I wonder what will meet the spring sky after winter.
