visiting, away from home 

i see snow, inches of it, i see grass

where the snow has melted

not green so much as a suggestion of green

the sky is a hue of blue i never see in the city

i like it very much

i see no birds at the moment

but i have been seeing them all morning

and hearing their chit-chatter

i hear ice melting

making ice-cubey-rattling sounds in the guttering behind me

the strength of the sun upon me has warmed me

my blue shirt is warm to the touch

i am coatless, a

funny feeling for february

the intensity of sun causes me to squint

i am barely able to see the words i am writing on the laptop 

these things are, in the existential sense

the sun and snow and green and my blue shirt are real

they must be, my senses tell me they are 

i only say this because these images

and these sensations i am describing feel unreal

it is the unfamiliar locale i suppose

a day to remember

the whole greater than the sum of its parts

what a wonderful thing these phenomena are

to exist, to observe, to partake

this heartens me greatly, this existence, this goodness

the proof is the warmth, but where are the birds 

i will not write another word until i see a bird

ah, they were there all along, i was dis-attuned to them

hidden as they often are among the branches and dry leaves

little birds

the sun too blinding for me to name them, why name them

a bird 

is

i will not claim ownership of a name

names are suggestive, 'a rose by any other name'

the snow is melting quickly

one can daydream on a day like this

put the bad on a shelf

visible but slightly beyond reach

i know it will return whether i rise to fetch it or not

it will intrude itself upon me—

the very lynn of me

the suggestion of lynn, 'a rose by any other name'

the very hard won lynn

the independent lynn

the one of lynn

the something called lynn

the interior being which is lynn

the father defying lynn

the mother emulating lynn

the marketa ravishing lynn lynn

the lynn ravishing marketa lynn

the sisterbrothersister lynn

the   l  y  n  n   sewn upon the blue felt heart lynn

remnant of love past

salty kisses and deep dives

the eternal lynn

but not today, not now—it is on the shelf

i hear a raven

i inhale deeply this foothill air

feel the breeze on my face

feel the dryness of the air on my fingertips

taste the earth in its dormancy, its potential, a moldering earthiness

and when i look up from the laptop

or see peripherally

i see the best this planet offers—blue sky, white snow, green blades of grass

i see earth and sky 

i see all the details in between earth and sky

i see all around and within and beyond the earth and sky

for imagination allows me this magical power

time passes

the mechanical sound of a heat pump

gradually stirs me from this revery, i cannot un-hear it

there is a deer on the far hill

i am returning to earth, to the ordinary earth, my revery is over

addendum

what i see is

which is a given or a supposition

what i think

i can liken to the balance wheel of a stem-wound pocket-watch

first whirling right, then whirling left

over and over, again and again

each whirl a thought, which is a choice

which is no choice at all by determinist standards

which is a very real choice by existentialist standards

but to be me—is to exist

quietly

enthralled by my touchstones—blue sky, white clouds, green grass

to be me is to be engaged

independent

a sojourner who always returns to the coziness or imagined coziness

of domestic tranquility

safe harbor in home and welcoming arms

life is linear

bliss is infrequent

angst is ever-present

angst and exuberance go hand in hand

privilege matters

uncertainty is certain

the sun is lower, the air cooler

only the snow in shade remains

the birds seem to have disappeared again

the heat pump is quiet