When I left home, I closed my eyes…

I left the words of my prayers in the shadows of a tree line. Now I am as silent as the seeds I carry.

There is new life in these seeds, if only they would sprout in winter, giving proof of a faith that is growing.

Spring is the cruellest of seasons, forever distant, hidden behind doors locked by anonymous promises.

Winter, in its silence, is always honest. Winter never lies with the warmth of a little hope. It is cold and it will get colder.

I wish I had gloves.

I bundle my child in warm clothes and carry him. My wife, also bundled for warmth, walks beside me. The long marriage can say more with a look than with words; she sings quietly as we walk together.

(Moonlight bares the gravel road.)

My son is too small to understand our journey, but he carries his mother’s song in his eyes. He doesn’t know the words, but he knows the beauty.

Sometimes I love winter. It has all the pleasure and pain of a forgotten poem and empty bottles of wine, but I want my son to have more than poetic ashes and empty wine bottles.

Would I risk your life to save it?

I quietly sing along with the song in my son’s eyes. I don’t know the words, but I know the beauty.

…when he opens his eyes, he will be home.

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