12/3/22
When snow drapes the world,
I hear the echo of wings,
their flight a melody
I can no longer touch.
When the air fills with song,
I see the quiet fall of white,
its silence a ghost
pressed into memory.
I am always leaning—
toward what was,
what might be,
what should have been.
The moment,
no matter how it gleams,
slips through my hands
like water,
like wind.
---
12/5/24
Perhaps this is why I gather fragments,
why the glint of frost on a blade of grass
holds my gaze longer than the expanse of snow.
Why I follow the tilt of a bird’s head,
its small movements louder than the sky.
The whole of any moment
is too vast, too sharp—
a cacophony of light and sound
I cannot hold.
But in the minutia,
I find a silence I can bear,
a single thread
to keep my mind from unraveling.
Perhaps this is how I survive the present:
by breaking it into pieces
small enough to love, maybe,
small enough to leave.
small enough to know