I tip my hat to the wilting horizon.
To the captured and to the released.
It is amber light overhead now, and the day plans to be small.
Tomorrow, who can say? The future is tight-lipped.
It might be fitting to clean the windows so Spring can invade forward.
Grime does have enduring merit, though. It accumulated slowly over reciprocal days, ours acquired together arm in arm, and to wipe it dispassionately away serves no man or God well.
That’s a heavy thought, so I have work to do tomorrow—big work, it appears—if I choose it.
To obliterate and to begin anew does not arise without solemn effort.
The first step is awareness of the mission.
Then comes the doing.
The work.
But never in haste.
Never in haste.