Slate
The evening is slate.
My eyes are tired, as I look at the darkening. The feeling inside: slow, like drifting in water. Another year has shifted into memory, hours and events moving from actual to thought-based.
New time is here, now.
Memories of 2004 are like the thin frost of snow outside: not much yet. Inevitably building.
Like an afterimage lingering, Christmas still holds to the feel and spaces around me. Oddly, New Year’s Eve seems further back. Time piles up — but it eddies around as well. Like Autumn leaves…or ocean currents.
I’m wondering how this year will flow. What memories and moments it will hold.
In the slate-gone-to-obsidian evening, I’m thinking of light, openness, and warmth. Wide skies and freedom. 2003 has gone to memory and thought — the coming year is still mostly there too.
For now.