Is it, the morning,
a great unhinging, or is it a nailing onto? We let go the night, we grab the day, the sun, the motion forward. When will the drag of the past, that weight, bring us to a standstill? Is that what death is?
When the letting go? When the holding onto?
The merest hint of frost this morning. Blue sky with clouds to the north. Sun from the east, a blanket on our warm house.
Yes, a dark bank of clouds to the north. Wind from south to north. We are promised real warmth - in the 50s, maybe into the 60s.
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