January 23, 2008
It is. And this is a prayer. It is a prayer for my friend Matthew, for the Cone, for the Flower, and my children. It is. It is the lights shining in the village and sprayed up against snowy tree trunks. It is praise and witness. It is the shine of strings vibrating in cold air. It is roots knobbed high against the sky and hearts beating through brains in the dark. It is clarity and isolation. It is that knows itself. It is leather beading sweat against deep gulps of air. It is shift and flow. It is shouting.