Finding Momentum

There is noth­ing ahead but fire­light, sweet chamomile tea, four ounces of froth and eraser dust. Sud­denly, we too are chil­dren; we too are pop­pyleaf flow­ers rid­ing rogue gusts of unbri­dled wind. The solace you seek lies one octave above, above the cloud cover, above the sor­row and heavy mat­ters of dirt, scan­dal and earth. Sing softly–we too will be wait­ing for you in the risotto glow.