snow came and took my voice.
possibly, i was sleeping,
birth-curled against the wall
forehead cooled,
bringing the sky
which reflected the ground-glow
to the place within,
it falls softly there, too.

i always love it best untouched,
where it lays, mimicking lines of beasts beneath it.
maybe those are your lines
or mine,
or what if they’re propped up pillows
in the blanket to resemble human form
so we could sneak out past curfew.

we walk in lopsided paths, powdered felt shifting our boots from under us,
maybe my voice is over there in vein-branch trees.
hiding thirty-year-soldier-dedicated.

nature tells us we don’t imbibe of these berries in winter,
for they don’t grow naturally here when foreheads lie, spooning cold walls.
they grow on islands that have never seen this stark leveling,
nurtured by children little older than us
do you know they bid each berry farewell as they pluck them from the vine?
they believe they’ll never in their lives see them again