There is frost on the ground as I write. 
The trees are vulnerable
Their limbs fully exposed for all to see
The train is whistling in the distance
My lips are so dry
and this cup of azaya tea is warming me
As I look up words written by a man I have loved remind me of lasting truths
I am a prayer warrior
I breathe life into people, trees, rocks, anything
I am whimsical
My questions have purpose
I awaken heaven in people and show a way
In front of me is a calendar with a room pictured- this month has two yellow chairs and sunflowers and a piano with greens on them. The kind of greens that give breath
It is the kind of room where music would be written- where breath would come back
My mind wanders to to do lists and money and how this season will all work out and even as I write these words I am calling myself back to breath. 
This will be an amazing season of life because I am with the godhead and because I will declare it and choose to see the goodness of the lord in the land of the living.