You
were
born in
a place of
snow. In a moment
where you could hear them, millions of
crystal white birds descending from the cold low sky and
the whisper of their landing, much slower than the clicking of water or frozen stones.
In
a
moment,
foot shapes packed
by a rabbit's weight
told of her life in the white field.
In
a
moment
the details
of ice runes from the
sky wrote out things usually
set apart and hidden behind life, carried away
some of your inner structures and reshaped them for you, could you make this slice of time move
laterally, you would travel with these light gardens,
cultivate their microscopic,
white rainbow roses
for your tongue,
your eyes,
your
hair.
