Introconnected

It's the coldest day of the year so far, and I'm content to remain indoors, doing some thinking. I'm also content to remain on the North American continent, as a fairly sedate and sober writer, instead of doing a job most would consider to be glamourous. There isn't anything glamourous about a bespectacled writer who teaches piano and snowshoes through the park - or is there?

Above is 'Le Reve' by Picasso, and to the right is 'The Ballerina' by Cezanne

The penguins in Patagonia
are mysteries to me,
all of Europe evades.
I did not become the ballerina
I dreamed of becoming,
I failed to take one superstep
down the catwalk beckoning me.
My lifelong, loving companion
has not yet arrived,
and neither are my composed words
soul-tinged compared with Dickenson's.
I have, though, held time
in my hands and shaped it. . .
gave it wings. . . let it rest.
I have held one billion snowflakes
in my gaze - and knew their number.
I don't try to chalk the sun
or give a phrase to every thought.
I like to know that others, too, let alone
the souls of things.