Gone Gone Gone

Hello there. I moved to Costa Rica. It’s great. You can follow my story here: http://storify.com. Here is a poem with which I want to leave you to tide you over until I return, if ever. It is by my dear friend Erin Taylor. Thank you, Erin.

“Winter”

Winter is a time for dreaming.

Everything is still, but if I stop
moving I’m afraid I’ll
stop altogether.
So some part of me
has to keep going
always.
My mind won’t leave me alone.
No sleep
no rest from my dreams and nightmares of what could be.
It looks around, scrutinizes,
pulls apart every detail.
Nothing satisfies.
Nothing is as it should be.
Nothing feels wonderful
in winter.
My mind says to my body
you are still and cold,
get moving!
Go away from this place
it’s holding you back.
My mind says to my hands,
you are idle and chapped.
Make more
poetry
more music
more production.
Make!
My mind says to my eyes
you are tired and droopy.
Dance more!
Read, learn, progress.
My mind say to my mouth
stop kissing so much!
My whole being is wrecked by conflict.
And from outside, my ears
hear more bad news.
My eyes see so few
people out on the streets
and my hands shake few
others. They hide in my warmish pockets
like everyone else.
My mind, meanwhile, whirls
close to oblivion.
It says this is fine and fine is
not enough. Everything has to
change. Go go go
keep moving
never stop never hibernate winter
is not for you you must
maintain the kinetic
heat that flows and pulses
and makes
you alive.
A small voice asks
why?
Don’t the plants die back in winter?
Doesn’t the maple sap settle into the roots?
Doesn’t the bear hibernate with her cubs?
Don’t the ponds freeze?
Doesn’t the sun, even the great
hot blazing sun
hide from us?
The small voice says
my feet hurt from walking.
My throat is raw from speaking.
My hands are chapped from use.
My eyes ache from being awake too long.
Perhaps it’s okay to be still
for a while.
To be kissed
close my eyes
rest my hands.
And many parties nod their agreement.
The hands fold.
The eyes close.
The lips part.
But then the mind warms
(more softly this time)
be careful.
You are not a maple tree,
reserving sugar until the ice melts.
You are not the mama bear
protecting her babies from the cold.
You are not the sun, turning away
from some of her children for a while
only to tend to others.
You are only you.
Who will rouse you in the spring?
If you don’t at least dream
at least plant at least hope
all winter
you risk getting stuck.
You wouldn’t want that, now
would you?
Take care, live large, salud salud salud siempre.
A Snowy Adventure with Jimmy Vogel
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