What is meant by an iron will?
Maybe a thing forged anew each morning
Broken by sundown?
Pieces scattered waiting
Till light and warmth readies them for another breaking.
🌬️
“..to slip again over my faculties the viewless fetters of an uniform and too still existence..”
-Charlotte Brontë
Mornings
One of those gloriously messy weekday mornings where we managed to get out the door early, good attitudes still in tact. I also had the wherewithal to grab my camera, given the conditions seemed conducive to drama over the lake. It’s a beautiful thing when plans work, and we get a nice little break from perpetual adaptation.
Coming On but Slowly
Things taking time
to be what they will,
Ideas forming along
state change lines.
Does this death feel more illusionary
Since feeling and love and promise
spring forth from what’s left of it?