It is as though the poetry of the naked winter trees lives inside of my veins. I could stare for hours at the beauty of their dark complications as they reach for the wide white heavens. Lost in the static silence of their deafening communication, I swear they, too, possess blood, a heart, nerve endings. Not to humanize them but to remind us that we are creatures from another world beyond this one. Perhaps I am drawn to the faceless for reasons I have yet to understand. This one sodden life where we grovel close to the ground and rarely, if ever, bother to look up. Wouldn’t it be easier if I liked the things I was supposed to like. If my mind would just stop bending into the perverse, desperate for the richness of the distorted. If I didn’t fantasize a thousand alternate lives and choices. Wouldn’t it be simpler if I did what I was supposed to do and allowed it to satisfy me. We bludgeon our energy, our magic, with the mundane. We waste so much time questioning ourselves. Cold and alone beneath the full December moon. The things I dream about you’d never be able to believe. But they exist for me so vividly, so radiant and sensual in the bareness of their private, intimate truth. I close my eyes and taste the rain and I could be anywhere at all. Anywhere at all so far away from here.