Cold

It is winter. It is summer. It is winter again. The mountains move slowly and I shiver for a season. The river is now ice. Permanence in motion; permanence at rest. The heart of the river still flows after its own course but the surface of the water is now closed to me.

As I hunker on the banks and contemplate this seperation, I feel rejected; I feel nonplussed. This result is my own choosing, this result is beyond my control. I stand still on the shore as before, as I will. The ice is the result of the seasons, the temperature, of the speed of the water and matters both intimate to and widely distant from the heart of the water.

But my hopes were in the heart of the water. It is one thing to choose to stand beside another. It is another thing to be shut out entirely.

The jungle is dormant in winter, but still with a life of its own. It is as open as always, but still does not choose me. I can walk into it now as surely as ever, but I would be interloper, intruder. Unnecessary. Unwelcome. My heart would welcome its cover, its canopy, its surrounding, as surely as always anytime, but it does not choose me.

So again I consider the river. It is summer, it is winter again. Its course is unknown to me. I may walk beside it, but its course may turn from me; I stand in place and always it moves away from me.

How well can I skate?, I wonder, as I begin moving again along the shore between these two marvels. Where is my faith in this? Love never fails, but which do I love more? Or have I fallen in love with walking alone on the shore. What future do I live for? How well can I skate?

Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right,
here I am! – Stuck in the middle with you