There is a symmetry in odd places.
As I got closer to the door, I thought less of the thing on the other side and more about the flow of light – the way it cascades like water in undulous, radiative motion. The way it comes, brilliant, from a source, and spreads like the rays of the Sun King’s crest – a halo of crespuscular rays.
The nights around here are like good poetry. The phrases are brief and sparkling – never lengthier than the stretch of my headlights through the unwinding roads.
I’m writing in black ink today, which is psychologically more daunting than blue.
The one that holds fast to my son’s finger lingers a while, a portion of its allotted thirty-six hours spent here under the breath of a three-year-old boy.
Moving from where we're at, always to where we're going, and never really returning to anywhere we've been before.
I feel my roots stretching out beneath me, moving through the dark past like branches move through the air.
My wife told me all of this after I’d carried my daughter inside.
It opened me up with some playful jabs - Midwestern winters and their own kind of howling haunt - and then laid me out with a haymaker so rapid that I didn't even feel it.