I am outside shoveling snow. There are oak leaves above me that cling to a vanished life. They look like they’re being blown by a wind not quite strong enough to pluck them from their purchase. But right now it’s perfectly still. Their frailty is what keeps them in place. Brittle yes, but not knocked down and raked up and forgotten.
The sun has set, my work done. The effort to clear the snow from my drive changes the warmth within my vest to a chill on the back of my neck. There is a fire inside our home, maybe whiskey, most definitely love. But for a few moments longer, I’m going to watch the oak leaves pretend to blow in the wind and listen to Bodies of Mind.