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A crushing cold front has passed into my life, my mind body and soul ache from the bitter cold.  There is no warmth, no safe place to go, nothing…  I can’t blame mother nature on this one, my navigation was off and I alone am left seeking a safe port.

Nor Wester

My anchors represent safety but all are not created equally.  I have been carrying around too many and its time to throw the useless ones overboard to be swept away with the tides.

When I chose my little vessel I wasn’t picky.  All I have ever asked of her is that she keep me safe in a sea of storms.  In return for that safety I lavish her with attention and she shows it.  I keep her off the rocks and confidently sail her through troubled waters.  She is as much a part of me as I am of her.  I don’t know what her soul is made of, but whatever it is hers and mine are alike.

Grey skies, and greyer sea’s, that lap along the shore.  And in my heart a name, my lips shall speak no more.  I walked the beach searching for spring, she is out there, somewhere.  Like all storms so too shall this cold front pass.  While I wait patiently for the tide to change I find a warm blanket and a glass of scotch along with a little Pablo Neruda to be good company.  Its moving day, back home to Sookie.

Here I love you. 
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars. 
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.

Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.

Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.

The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.

The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire. 

~Pablo Neruda
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