Slivers.

There is a part of each of us, I believe, that still longs to tremble under the unfathomable newness of something.

No matter how jaded, how embittered, how battered and beleaguered, this feeling is sleeping beneath our skins, coiled tight like a snake in the chill of night, waiting to be released by a warm breath, or a sigh.

To ignore that feeling is to allow oneself to partake in death, one small denial at a time.

There are dips and swells, furrows and chasms--all concealing and revealing everything at once.

This is a blessing, because we would all crumble beneath the weight of so much Truth delivered at once. It would annihilate any one of us instantly.

We digest as we are able, one bite at a time, of this wild feast of a life. There will never be enough time for all of it, and if we go too fast or swallow too much- there is danger of choking, or worse yet--forgetting to savor each little moment.

My fingers tremble in time to the leaves clinging to the dessicated trees outside the window. The lake is blue, receded, punctuated by century-old stumps, reminding us that they once owned this place.

We all tremble beneath the strokings of the wind, all waiting for rain, thunder, night. Anything to break the spell, and uncoil our secret selves anew.