Bridge
I feel, standing here on the flagstones of 2013’s entry gate
of January, that this year is like a bridge stretching out before me.
I can see the lines of its guide wires and the arc of its beginning to stretch up up so
high. But most of it is still obscured by the sheets of mist and the curtains
of fog blowing in form the bay somewhere off to my right.
On my back I have my rucksack. It’s pretty bare bones but really all the
tolls I’ll need. My black gel pens, my composition notebooks, my eating list
ever rotating on its four day schedule. On my feet I have got my hiking boots of
time and intention. Somewhere in the fog I hear my friends and family are
calling out their thoughts and encouragements, but still it is my bridge to
cross. My space to add to with my bricks of words.
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