Rain sodden, soggy, fills the earth.
I’m laying around, doing nothing, on recovery.
But what it means to do nothing! To rest my body that still beats and spills songs of the earth.
The miracle of mundane, saint of simplicity. Rhythm or rain sloshing steady down the sky, crusts of ice chip and break away on the lawn.
The world goes on, and so do I. Breathing, blinking, marveling at how gray never looked so good, how a murky, messy winter really glows in early February. And if I press my ear hard enough into my heart, I hear it stretch, blood move about its chambers, testing its walls and routes. Learning its patterns of life.
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