I was a different person then,
and so the expectation that I should write the same,
work the same,
be the same,
is silly.

Within the same breath,
I am still me,
Perhaps just more
Still.

I sat up late with the spirits,
Welcomed the long night at 3:02 am my time.
We were quiet together,
I think they save the most raucous stories
For when I sleep.
Because that’s the time
I don’t stop myself from feeling everything
And anything really is possible.

The trees outside are bare,
branches against the sky
like cracks in a tea cup
that just won’t stop holding tea
with more confidence than I feel is warranted.
But what do I know about holding tea?
Or living a life where I don’t worry
I might spend the coldest longest night
brave enough to bare my self to the elements,
because the light comes back
and so does spring.

It’s not even about being patient,
waiting,
desirous of that new growth.
There is no need for patience,
because that suggests calm
in the face of delay.

That suggests
we’re late
for something
When we are
exactly
right
on
time.