Day of rest

Trouble is, we never take vacations. Words are always with us. The storyline, to be wound in and around and through the daily obligations, joyful and otherwise, of being in this body in this world. All good, all to be grateful for. Not enough hours in the blue and white crackle of sun on snow.

A clean house, no wind, -14 degrees. Brunch to eat, art gallery to visit, dog to be walked, reading to do...

And all the while the story sits. A yarn-end to be clung to before the playful, greedy cat rips it away.

The desire, my friends, to knit a row daily before it unravels again, a messy tangle around table legs. A trail to be followed before the light goes out.