I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence
And so the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're goin' through

Friday, January 1, 2010

Eight Maids a-Milking

The snow is so thick in the air it's sometimes difficult to see to the road. The wind drives the snow hard in cross directions. And then the wind loses it's bite and the snow hangs in the air like someone who opens the door to the refrigerator only to forget what they were looking for. So they hang there in limbo, waiting to remember their purpose.

A New Year in the western tradition. The snow seems to have remembered it's winter and continues to pile up. In the eastern tradition, precipitation on auspicious days is considered good luck. In the new year we must be going to have several inches of good luck then.

2 comments:

Rick said...

Happy New Year, Steve! Here's a funny one for you- all of my Eastern teachers without exception said they were usually so drunk New Year's Eve they couldn't even remember New Year's Day!

Going to be a good year coming for you. Crossing my fingers.

Steve Buchheit said...

Hey, Rick. Happy New Years right back. And I'm giggling at the thought of your eastern teachers being so drunk they couldn't remember the day.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed for all of us. May it be a good year for everybody. Many of the people I know have pieces coming out soon. Here's hoping the right words come to us all, the reviews are positive, and we get noticed by the awards.