It’s baffling to me that something tiny enough to fit in my closed fist already carries everything it needs to become a massive oak. It too much to take in, an entire galaxy in the pin point prick of a star. And yet all the greatest achievements were at first only a speck, a wish, a dream. A bird growing inside the egg, waiting with tight, folded wings.
On Blooming
You have to start winter the same way you start a quarentine, by knowing it will end. So that when the holdidays are finished, and the bulk of winter lays spread bare before you, a gutted fish; white meat packed against the bones like wedged feathers, that the isolation, the Styrofoam silence the white padded lawns and dusted sidewalks that show every stain, every ungraceful mistep will eventually melt beneath the sun, seep into the earth, water the seeds of what if.