I am craving white space on the page. Only what remains after the burning of many words can be left, and even then it should be a shadow and wake no emotion.
The crowing of words from every digital precipice is all together too much noise ‘signifying nothing’.I rest my eyes on the white snow outside, turn my head to eliminate the shivering arms of a maple.
The cat turns to me as though to say, when will we rest?
I answer, soon, soon. The holidays are soon.