on (or near) the floe edge

Too many days since I weighed in. Blogging makes demands, one of which might be to get out on the floe edge of perception and see what might be there. There's always the stuff out the window. Today, very cold. And white. Snow spread across the field like a butter by the wind. I like sliding across the field on skis. Why am I not doing it? I try sliding across the page, too. That, too, feels like a disappearance into essentials. What do I mean? Maybe that beyond meaning is something better than meaning. Which, of course, is a meaning, too. The wind has no obstacle to itself today. It blows and blows. The little white pines out front shiver.