the fireplace is warm in the cold mountains
there are natural rhythms here, like snow that shifts directions in the storm
or powder that speaks of isolation, like a man walking on the moon
crisp, and silent
near the cabin, too high, to be bothered with
too dangerous, to get to, even on skis
the plane is tucked in the barn, grounded, like a dream waiting to be unleashed
How did the piano get here? It’s from a bygone age, when music came from the soul, and not a perfect recording
There’s a difference—nobody’s soul is perfect
all the flaws and strange emotions
that don’t follow the creator’s original score
spill into the room
where nobody hears, but the man playing the piano
He feeds his fire, with his failed manuscript
writing has kept him warm, too
and whiskey
the dog doesn’t worry about anything
he is content to lie on the rug
time passes slowly, here
like the man and his best friend were living in a different time, altogether
Now, the storm is clearing up
the white sky becomes black
the stars have always offered guidance
the man picks up his rifle and puts on his hat
He walks to the lake and sees the moon in the water
an idea is worth a million words
and he has all he needs in that timeless wonderland
unforgiving
and yet, accepting
of the man who doesn’t need forgiveness
He walks back into solitude
to invite the natural rhythms
inside
to do
what matters…
Writing, isn’t about anything but that.