Well met, then, Willard

I am here, have been here in waiting. Waiting for weather—as you (probably) know, there is not a spot of it on the ground anymore. Has not been for weeks it seems. And close now to the holidays, just in sight of them, still the ground is bare, if wet and watched over by consistent wind. I wish for it, for winter, if this is what it is, what we can call it. We have passed the solstice just yesterday which means the days begin their game of lengthening again.

It is dark out in the world. There is no poetry in the darkness. There is no language in the heart of it, the occasional flick of light, the loneliness, the quietude. I could map your face onto it but where would that leave me—here, still, the sound of typewriter keys striking the faceplate as I write my way into it, whether the weather sees fit to grant legitimacy, a brief white blast, a taste of it at least, or if it does not.