everything's idle in a waking world. trees bronzed by sunset's dawning thoughts spill from limb to limb to cradle cooing squirrels, their kin with them, sleeping. kids cozy in bed haven't an inkling of mail's origin, nor would they care should they hear the tale of it; the why. with eyes tired and chest overheating, frozen toes, all the scrambling over nary a sidewalk, who knows what hides beneath bowing snow, it yields to no man, save for to trip him up, if he be not respectful of nature's small kindness. there are two times of day, which meld into which, moaning as it were the great languid tuber stretched long and waiting to be feasted upon. appreciated at least. from like to like, sustenance knows no bounds were it unconsidered, lay dormant without repose. the day calls itself the day out of respect of the living, it being not afraid to set aside its own self-knowing. rocks growing moss lean toward man and people lie in wait for food, warmth, a small touch of the hand, a reminder that love blossoms where least conceited, more silently favored when a privacy's emcompassed. the life fuel of all ages, communication for want of a better configuration revolves around light and color, the beauty which circumscibes the snowglobe of a harsh winter once a great sluice helps slough off nasty demeanors. beit rain or shine, morning or evening time, contrast abides and laws unmake themselves on their yearly course toward freedom unwinding.

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