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.

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