A seasonal perspective

We are just now going into the cold season. A strong reminder of winter to wake up into. Rise from warm beds and no longer seek to produce cold air for ourselves. This side of the season we are less content to shiver. The hardest cold and last freezing ahead with summer behind, just beyond a burgeoning spring. Heat, hypothetical at this point, is still persuasive. The lingering chill draws through weary flesh into bones, preserved, maintained, no blanket wrapped over legs or swaddling shoulders. With stiff joints we walk like dragging boulders. Giant rocks found only in our heads, imagined in insulated minds. Not a nerve present enough in the brain to feel cold, or hot, just every other thought one could ever hope to consider. Such as sweaty discomfort dead ahead, fast approaching or trapped by memories growing cold and stale in the past.
Whatever is happening in the world around me, this planet is like a great forested dog, slobbering salt oceans. Digging in its back, right over a rib embracing a beating heart, I am its flea. Discussing shapes passing by, apprehensions and desires scratched off and gone, days too frozen to ever thaw back from, an abrasive sun.
The flea finds only confusion when looking only out. Carried forward and back. Watching silently toward tomorrow, or stared backward at the echoes of yesterday.
Feeling humbled, minuscule in the expansive presence of past and future.
But living like a god in the now.

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