I am a Cat

I miss the easy warmth of the spring sun.  The light stretched out across a floor covering a long length.  A comfort of radiance to curl up in.
In the summer the sun is too tall in the sky.  The heat scorching the carpet in a slow pass over head.  It is fine for short spell, but long naps are not in the cards.
The autumn sun is almost a encore of the spring, however the diminishing returns of daylight brings mood down.
Winter might as well have no sun at all.
Meow.

Sleepless

I can’t rest, my mind dwells on hateful and depressing internal dialogue.

When I have a self righteous thought about what I am owed or what I deserve a counter thought presents itself that makes me ashamed.  I know that am owed nothing, and I don’t know what I deserve.

Like a maelstrom loathing first for others, then for myself twist inwardly in my heart that twists on and repeats not letting me slumber.  What is left afterward is a pile of regrets that I try to carefully avoid, because it they are disturbed they can bring the storm back.

My woes and misfortune are my own making and I can not hold illusions that would blame others for my faults, try as I might.

I will let tears flow for awhile and fury to bubble over and wear itself out.

I make plans, deals and pacts with myself that rarely make it to dawn.

At times such as this I find that even if sleep does, I jerk awake for dreams of my teeth falling apart, or having my life ruin beyond repair far worse then reality.  Atleast I can be relieved that those just dreams.

Ode to Mom's Voice

I love when my mother reads aloud.

Her rhythm and voice are warm and seem to glow.

She brings out more feeling to words then when read by to myself.

It is not just childhood nostalgia.

My mother reads aloud to my father on long road trips.

She read pieces at the fellowship.

None I know of complain.

When she read words I have written, I burst with pride.

Smiling in the Frost

Oh how I love the sound of snow so crisp and dry the each step fills the ear with a crunch.

The air so cold that frost forms on my beard.

The stillness that haunts everything.

When I stand still I hear the ice of the lake pushing itself as a giant cracking his knuckles.