My knees always tremble and hands grip tight to the wheel. I swallow deeper and think the worst. Always. The morning was so fresh and already so long and disappointing, but the week before it harder even, and the month that came first nearly unbearable under the weight.
My heart wanted to bury itself deep in the bed,
warm and unconsciously brave to the world.
The little one sniffles and the snow blankets
and the sadness arrives with the sun.
The bed is so much kinder than it all.
But already through the panes I can see what He has done.
Masterpiece of stillness.
Outlining each. and. every. branch in fine stroke to say, "Look closer. There's more."
Look here; there is more. And over there; still more. To all that you see, more.
And the path whispers in my very soul.
"Beautiful places are almost always hard to get to."
I devour every word and carry it like the most loved blanket that smells like home back to the wounded and bleeding parts.
I stand breathless before the pines and the branches like fine lace and the sorrow and snow and trembling knees.
My fingers hold fast to the wheel, but the tires are lost to the beauty.
And I am lost too, but through the pains I see the Master peace.