The charcoal brushes across the paper with surreptitious anticipation, each stroke of
her fingers endeavoring to quell, the virtual heartbeat in her hands on fire with intention
roused. So much of the time she is gazing out across an uncharted horizon, unwilling
to venture further than her one wavering hope. When dawn comes, there is an outline, a figure
faintly representing love's eventual emergence from reluctance.
Gliding ghost-like across a white, misty frozen lake, all the while certain that to slip would
be to fall back under an impenetrable surface. Solid with resistance is cracking, and the
paper's now a canvas. The rush of creation is faster now. No discipline can control breaths
in rush.
Rassible pace, tumbling down like boulders on a mountain made of light.