THE MARGINS WHERE WE LIVE
Overnight, the air froze.
Crystallized. Now, a thin breath
lies on the prairie hills.
Light becomes certain in cold,
not glazing, not luminous,
only captured and stilled.
The margin of reality
is the margin of illusion.
In that margin between
the prairie and us lies space,
vastness that confirms existence.
It's the air frozen
and it's our awareness.
Nothing more, nothing less
confirms our belief.
The road will be deadly
and will still take icy skill
to drive on.
We will have safe passage.
The margins will always be the space
where we live.
Overnight, the air froze.
Crystallized. Now, a thin breath
lies on the prairie hills.
Light becomes certain in cold,
not glazing, not luminous,
only captured and stilled.
The margin of reality
is the margin of illusion.
In that margin between
the prairie and us lies space,
vastness that confirms existence.
It's the air frozen
and it's our awareness.
Nothing more, nothing less
confirms our belief.
The road will be deadly
and will still take icy skill
to drive on.
We will have safe passage.
The margins will always be the space
where we live.