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I love a joke well-told.I love the solving of a riddle, that moment when the rigid, false facade collapses and an unexpected figure strides smiling forth.
I love:the migration of birds
the orioles squabbling in Costa Rican palms while juncos forfeit their taiga to claim these rich south woods of winter.
the dormancy of things that stay - creatures burrowed deep to sleep.
the fierce biding of stemless roots and leafless twigs.
the genius of a queen bee, hot within her cluster, sipping summer's honey.
. . . The whole love poem below the fold . . .
From January 5 . . .
I love:
the cold so bitingly mad that wind-tossed branches clack together as metal rods.
the mist-drizzle needles' subcutaneous dance in the blood-heat of my cheeks.
the gray, wet, chill air, which can be snatched away like a magician-scarf to shock me into knowing light and sun-warmth.
I love:
the arrogance of chickadees and tufted titmice - tiny, feathered, fearless, dinosaurian.
the skepticism of cats.
how Irish stout will not be rushed - whose churn from foamy brown to velvet black forces one to wait and contemplate.
I love the victory of laughter over shyness.
I love that moment when a friend averts their eyes - to gather the threads of the story they intend to tell - and we lean in to catch it.
the resonance of raindrops doinking gently on my black and broad-brimmed Amish hat.
I love that toads live in our cellar - warty house guards who take crickets and bring good luck - or so I'm happy to believe.
the eight-eyed spiders who stalk prey in high corners and leave no cobweb behind. Jumping spiders - too quick - I love their way of moving - jerky little teleports.
I love the sunbeam that re-makes a room to a sudden work of art.
my wife's drowsy, feline pleasure in the warmth of slanting sunshine.
