On what's left

It's snowing out. The sky is blue. Walking to work I see spring flowers blooming through the lawns. My ears hurt. The robins shiver. And yet, daffodils!


I am all out of blog posts and so walking along I keep my eye out for new ones, but I find only a tour of old blog posts.

I wrote about that eagle. I wrote about how when people add on to their house around here they make it uglier on the outside and prettier on the inside. I wrote about the "Hippies use the backdoor" sign. I wrote about the dogwalkers joining me on my path. I wrote about the river construction. I wrote about that graffiti there. I wrote about being late and the vicissitudes of time. I wrote about that cat. I wrote about all this stuff, every shrub and house and squirrel and riverboat, every fleeting thought, every dream and complaint and moment of wonder. I have covered this river down to its sandy bottom and I have covered all these people walking around into the last secret pockets of their souls. I have written about every last thing other than having written about every last thing. 

Which I have taken care of now.

Luckily the world changes.