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.
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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