Fire and Ice

I was just reading my Neruda anthology (again). This is one of my favorite procrastination techniques.

Once more I am the silent one
who came out of the distance
wrapped in cold rain and bells:
I owe to earth's pure death
the will to sprout.

Funny that I bought that book in Varanasi, on the Ganga.

At this moment, everything is shifting, although superficially stuck on winter motifs.

Yesterday we took a bus to northern Wisconsin, and skied ten kilometers across frozen Lake Superior. The way, lit by candles inside ice blocks, was mirrored by starlight. A bonfire blazed at the finish line, right there on the ice.

Sky and Lake. 

Fire and Ice. 

I like it when opposites merge, or at least shake hands in poetic ways.

I'm in the library right now. In about five minutes the Geek Bell is gonna jangle, indicating the closure of the library. I still have an essay to write for tomorrow morning. I'm stuck right now, though. Vividly nostalgic for travel and movement. Wondering about my life's trajectory. Distracted by the waxing moon.