Wintering

Under an azure sky

Clear and cold

I hear the wind rolling across the fields

The sound amplified by

The topography

A sound at once startling and familiar

As though the land is breathing with me

Breathing me.

Wind moving across the landscape

Through fingers of white pine needles,

Shimmering in the sun like water waves

It sounds as though someone

Is calling to me.

But it's the tin roof of the dilapidated shed

The Woodpecker at a distant tree

Twigs breaking

The slight groan of massive oaks swaying.

Turning towards that call

The sun warm against my face

Belies the sharp iciness of January.

Walking through the spread of fields

The hard crunch of snow

Echoes through the air

Piercing the naked forest

Its skeletons of tree trunks and branches revealed

While squirrels and other creatures scamper

In my wake.

All at once, new fallen snow

Softening the sound

Insulates me as the clouds gather

Shifting my view from expansive to close in

The silence full and intimate

As if wanting to reveal itself.

What am I waiting to hear?

Confirmation, validation, resolution, absolution…

I’m looking for a sign,

Something outside of myself to say yes

And point in the right direction,

Then I realize, if that’s the case

I’ll be waiting forever until I remember that

I’m the one who decides.

It’s like driving through fog at night

Feeling your way around blindly

Only getting clarity as what you seek appears

No more no less

There’s a breathlessness about it

I can’t rest until I’ve arrived

Along the way, I’ve felt settled,

Certain about one direction or another,

Only to find that the fog has descended again.

Longing for a clearing

A wider perspective instead of this claustrophobic place

Until I realize that I am the fog

In the endless scrolling

Chasing shiny objects

And every passing story

The answer is right here

All along.

I remember that I don’t have to keep waiting for someone, or

Something else, to tell me about me.