18JAN20

The frost on the windows is something I'll miss. And yet, it's like the frost on a window in Colorado in the morning air, or maybe northern California, gracing a cabin in the redwoods. 

I'm jellied into the middle ground, grasping, wondering what it means to yearn and mourn.

Frost is frost. 

It's what's around the frost that everyone attaches their own little meanings to.