the art of holding
December. is a cold greeting-a hazy handshake under the twinkle of falling snow. It is hot breath in cold air, crystallised shapes spinning everywhere- and you, there- standing beneath the low light of night wondering: How did I end up here? At the end of the year. Or maybe you are aware- and the lamp light's glare makes a home you know, with a voice that whispers: "it's not dead, nor sleeping. Your heart lives!" And in return you say: "I let the sands of time slip through my hands. Eternity never waits! The earth and I are a garden flowering for the Gods. Snow falls and covers our names: New. I tell you: the earth is our dream1 Shaped by scenes of half-prayers, gestures and motion. Revive your language of devotion and carry on! Even after, carry on. Even still. Silver tongues line the world with gold andg I hold no defense against the chill. (Winter's secret stays untold beneath the hill) Dig. And now, in the final month of the year...I can't help but ...