The current view out mywriting room window.
What words do you speak that are not your own? What thoughts do you have that are habitual and not productive?
If you could feel that your mind were really as infinite as the sky, what would change about your perspective?
Weathered
When the snow falls out
of season, in the middle
of spring when my tulips are up
and warmth has routinely entered
my home and my body; when
the snow, through an act of will,
makes itself from what should be
rain, I hear myself speaking lies.
From my lips comes the voice
of my father, cursing the weather
sent to personally offend him
and now me.
But after yoga class when the poses
have squeezed out his toxins
and I can see the clear sky of my
own mind, I know I love the snow
precisely for this act of defiance.
--Christine C. Reed
When the snow falls out
of season, in the middle
of spring when my tulips are up
and warmth has routinely entered
my home and my body; when
the snow, through an act of will,
makes itself from what should be
rain, I hear myself speaking lies.
From my lips comes the voice
of my father, cursing the weather
sent to personally offend him
and now me.
But after yoga class when the poses
have squeezed out his toxins
and I can see the clear sky of my
own mind, I know I love the snow
precisely for this act of defiance.
--Christine C. Reed
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