WordCrafters Wednesday Prompt 2/10/2021

 "It is not despair, for despair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt. We do not." -- Tolkien

Here I am on the precipice.
Already a grey sky thickens winterward
But this is already winter, of a sort.
There is a year gone to ground 
A month ago, burrowing into the past
From which we will find treasures--and dragons--
and great hills of swallowed fire while the trees
put a ring around 2020.
What will that look like?

I add a loop on the line
Pink, no sparkles, like flat sunset
rather than a champagne vision, 
fizzing on a table in an empty restaurant
where we cannot despair
because, of course, there
we cannot be.

I believe that this is another 
stillborn story. I am playing in this journal
at making art--really, I am doing that thing
I wanted to do in high school, 
keeping a diary of the empty days
to remind myself that blogs
and houses and interests and fears
have a lifespan. 

I add a flat link, one letter
to another. A word breaks at the margin;
frangible English or magical
sawing itself 
between meaning and space.
Nearly, but not quite, an end.