the wild brilliance of light

 December, and it would be a Saturday, some milk
out for the cat, as the long grey evening expires with snow.
He would read, and she would color,
her face pressed right up
against the window of the paper. What does she
see?—Her little heart one joy as the crayon-thick sun
pours yellow out onto the green trees
and large white box, beneath whose triangular hat
they will argue, love, dream, fight, and grow
up in. House. The very word's
a breathing out of so much
breathing in, —a book, a brain,
a wild brilliance of light trying to comprehend the dark air.

"Domestic" by Mark Irwin

This is one of those kind of poems that hook into my brain; not sure of the meaning, but know that it resonates.  Perhaps because I am pondering what 'home' means.  Perhaps because I am wondering what my life will be looking like at the next Christmas season.  While my gypsy soul is still alive, I am wanting--perhaps for the first time--to put down deep roots.

As a former boss always spouted:  "Time will tell."

On the counting of pennies side of the day, I am grateful I was back from my walk before the swat teams descended on my street.  Quel drama.  You can see the edge of my car.  I've seen many things out windows (volcano erupting, car crashes, etc), but never watched men gearing up for gun fire.

There were over 25 police and sheriff cars strewn about the street (made me want to go out and speed to my heart's content [there are FAR too many traffic cops on this island]) and myriad helicopters buzzing our skyline.  Don't know the entire story yet, but when they went to serve a warrant, someone in the house pulled a concealed weapon and shot the officer.  The fire was returned.  Women/children were dragged out of the house for safety and our neighborhood was locked down for several hours.

Who knew that country life would be wilder than my years in the Capitol Hill vicinity?

Time to plug in some Christmas lights and light some candles.  And breathe in some calm.