Snow covers the ground today like hope clothes the faith of pilgrims. Icicles hang low from eaves left frozen overnight. My warm breath rises in the morning chill like prayer seeking the mind of God, or His ear, to be more exact. Trees droop heavy with the weight of change, the sky having quietly dumped its own burden when it became too much for its weakening arms to hold. Some of that load now left clinging to Pine branches high above the ground, wishing, like the sky, for a little relief of their own.
Gray skies threaten more of the miraculous, like the promise of adversity intended to challenge the resolve of men, like a rude intruder sent to awaken us from an inebriate slumber, or a bad neighbor hell-bent to test the depth of our humanity.
Footprints on the ground, a virgin shroud left undisturbed as of yet, but for those tracks expecting to be followed by some other creature on the next step up the food chain. I would follow them myself if I were lost and hungry. But I am not lost,
nor am I hungry.
It is a morning unlike any other, just as every one of us is truly different. And just as each day that arrives brings hope for the next, each breath we take is given as a prelude to the next, but without the promise, however, that another one will follow. We are here, in this place, in this time, only for today.
Only for now.