bland_and_vacuous_docility blueberries the long work of turning your life into a celebration is not easy. my sorel tracks, breaking the crust of last night's silent fall are not first. rabbits and the bird who found itself a sudden prisoner inside the chicken coop have the first honours. they who walk the darkness and fly in the first light when even stars seem startled. in the horse stall, steam is rising off duke's back. it's thirteen degrees. he eats his pound and a half of grain while i pet the blind cat affectionately renamed. i lift her to her handful of food. she is a metaphor of hope, she is a person i have never seen but am learning to know, loving to know. virgin snow has fallen, covering everything under a blanket, like forgiveness. the apology one makes to the self who wrongs itself. the folly of mistaken identity. a bland and vacuous docility that becomes an empty stage for choreographed animal movements. a blank sheet of paper that the frozen fingers of morning write upon. "grow up slow," she whispers, "climb the sharp, crisp, blue sky with the ladder that the new sun provides, each increasing ray, a sturdy rung. one by one. hand to foot." each day is a moment. every week is a deep breath in and out. all months are songs we remember. seasons are the dances unexhausted. and year by year, you become the child you always wished when you blew out the candles. 020205 what's it to you? who go blather from