::Digital Pointillism::

  i see spots

 

::The Far Side of Change::

Things change.

The warm, ambient sameness that lulls us like an afternoon nap
is not a thing we can presume to keep.
Because just when we grow most fond of it,
Just when it settles around our frame and contours us from head to toe in a cocoon,
It rips it's skin-warmed blanket from our bodies and tilts us out of our rumpled sheets and into the chill of the day.
And it does not welcome us back.

There we stand, arms encircling our ribs, blinking in an effort to sharpen our focus on an alien context.
We run our hands along the bedpost, brush a finger over the familiar threads of a well-worn quilt.
Like a tidal pull, we're leaning over the place we lay moments before, the place that is still etched with our body's well-worn imprint.
We could hold this posture. We could. And slowly, we'd calcify into a hardened, bent thing. A gnarled willow weeping over what was. 

Eyes closed, there is a bracing within. Clutched hand opens.
Spine straightens. Feet pivot. We turn.
We walk from cradle to current
To be swept up
Wholly and completely
Into what waits
on the far side of change.